The Cottage
by Cee5
Summary: Molly needs to take a break from work, from Sherlock, and from her life in general. Being the recipient of an unexpected heritage, a cottage, Molly decides to take advantage of the vacation days she still has at her disposal and leaves in the hopes of finding some peace of mind. Sherlock, who needs Molly's help on a case, follows suit. WIP. Sherlolly.
1. The Missing Pathologist

Chapter One

The Missing Pathologist

The soles of Sherlock's shoes screeched on the vinyl floor as he paced inside St. Bart's, hands inside the pockets of his coat, scarf well-adjusted against his neck. He saw his reflection in one of the windows and he stared at it for a brief moment. Then, he ruffled his hair ever so slightly, to make it look naturally tousled, put his hands back in his pockets, and made the rest of the way into the hospital's morgue.

It had been raining all morning, as it was usual in the grey London, and Sherlock had made a great way of the road there by foot, knowing that solving this particular case required information he didn't have yet. That should be easily taken care of; all he needed were some body parts and a bit of patience to test his theory. The case was a peculiar one, but not entirely ground-breaking. A common case of murder, a jealous husband, and a secret love affair. Proving his conclusions on the case, however, was a bit trickier. Lestrade took his words for granted, but the jury would need proof, how the murdered had been framed by the sleuth. And that is why he was here this morning. Molly would surely give him what he needed, as long as he applied the right amount of charm on her. It never failed.

He pushed the door open with determination and entered the lab. He had memorised Molly's schedule the last time he had been there – she was carrying it in one hand and a quick glance was all he needed to store it inside his mind palace, ready to be used – and today she had started her shift very early in the morning. He would most likely find her working on a body or organs rather than taking care of papers.

The whirr of the fluorescent light welcomed him and he instinctively took in the environment. There was a bowl with some eyeballs at the far left corner, over the white lab bench, a tube with some weird mixture he recognised as blood and mud next to the microscope, ready to be examined, and an intern working at the far end of the room, bending over something Sherlock could not see. Molly was nowhere to be seen and he wondered if she had decided to have lunch earlier. He turned on his heels and walked out of the lab. He looked in the morgue and at the cafeteria, and as none of the places showed any signs of Molly he decided to check the lockers. That would have to point him in Molly's direction.

Except it didn't. The locker was not even locked and as Sherlock opened it he could see that it was empty except for her clean white lab coat and a few stickers: one regarding some animal institution and one for takeaway pizza. Sherlock inspected it better and concluded that Molly had been there the night before, which didn't fit her schedule, but maybe she had needed something. Then he shook his head. Of course she had needed something: her locker was empty. It didn't make any sense. Molly was always there. Always. If she had gotten sick she would have probably called the hospital and stay home, but her things would still be there, which wasn't the case. Sherlock sighed and decided that the best thing to do was to ask the intern back at the labs. Sherlock had seen him at the morgue and at the labs before, so if anyone would have any information about Molly it should be him, because from all the possibilities Sherlock was contemplating none fit with an empty locker.

He walked into the labs again and approached the intern, who was now working by the microscope, with reluctance. Sherlock wasn't used to start conversations with strangers. He cleared his throat.

"Excuse me," he said, "I am looking for Molly. Molly Hooper."

The intern moved his attention from the microscope and then looked at Sherlock, frowning. Sherlock read him over quickly: single, working on his second University diploma, an evening person with evening habits. Coffee addict with an obsessive compulsive disorder. All objects he was working with, from the microscope slide to the test tube that contained the mixture of blood, were perfectly aligned and the surface of the lab bench immaculate.

"Molly's on vacations," he informed, staring now at Sherlock with curiosity.

"Vacations?" it was Sherlock's turn to frown. "How do you mean?"

The intern removed the slide he was now examining under the microscope and took a few seconds to place it neatly on the other side of the lab bench. Then he picked another one and placed it on the stage, looking again through the eyepiece.

"She went on vacations. I don't know how to put it better."

"But Molly never takes vacations," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, apparently she does," the man looked again at Sherlock, "Look, she decided to take a rest, okay? Our boss had been pestering her for years that she needed a vacation, some time off, as everyone does. It's very well that she fills in during holidays because people want to be with family and Molly has no family, so it makes no difference to her to work during Christmas and New Year's Eve, but she needs her rest. So she decided to take the boss' advice at heart and have some holidays."

Sherlock was taken aback by the news. He needed Molly. He needed Molly to solve cases, to have body parts for experimentation, to prove his methods and test theories, he needed Molly available and it seemed quite unfair that she had just decided to take vacations like this.

"How long is she going to be away?"

Sherlock was sure she wouldn't be gone for more than a week tops, and he could easily convince her to come back to the hospital for a few hours and give him what he wanted.

"Over a month," the other man answered, checking some results on the computer, "She really took advantage of our boss' advice."

For Sherlock those news fell like a punch in the stomach. He felt almost betrayed by Molly's sudden decision. The man was staring at him with curiosity and Sherlock decided that maybe he didn't need to fetch Molly; maybe he could work with what he had at the moment. His expression softened and he smirked a little.

"Maybe you can help me then."

The man didn't even give Sherlock time to carry on with his plan. He had heard enough from Molly.

"Forget it, mate," he advised. "I am not providing you anything from this hospital. Actually, this place is off bounds for anyone who doesn't work here, and I know Molly and a few other people allow you in here for some reason, but I am not helping you out."

Sherlock's jaw tightened and he clenched his hands into fists. The idea of deducing this man up to his most intricate details, to the most deplorable secrets, struck him, but he reconsidered. There was no use in making enemies here and he knew when a battle was lost. Wasting time was not something he enjoyed, so he would have to find another way. He nodded, filled with a resentment he didn't try to conceal.

"The neighbour's cat has been entering your house from the chimney, as unlikely as that may sound to you. He then leaves the same way. It's an agile cat."

Without taking a second glance at the man's reaction, Sherlock walked away. He was tired of idiots.


	2. Sometimes Is Bend Or Break

Chapter Two

Sometimes It's Bend or Break

Molly kept all her things inside a bag, making sure she wasn't forgetting anything. Not that she had a lot of knickknacks there; after all it was just her work's locker and the objects she kept inside it were always being changed according to her needs. When she was finished with emptying it only her lab coat remained. It was a clean one and she would be returning to it eventually. She closed the metallic door slowly, and then she left the hospital.

It was late and cold and she decided that the walk home would be good to clear her mind a bit. She was still unsure about all this. Her boss had insisted with her to take a vacation, a small break, more times than she could count, and honestly she had felt the strain of the work lately, for the first time in years. Focusing was becoming difficult and sleeping too. Before deciding to finally make good use of her available days for vacations she had spent a few weeks sleeping just a few hours each night. Sleeping during the day when she had night shifts was useless, as she had found out in good time. She didn't want to take medication, because she thought this problem could be solved with some rest, and after contemplating the idea for a few days she had finally approach her boss, who showed more enthusiasm over her vacations than she felt. It was a necessity, more than anything.

Molly saw her breath as it entered in contact with the evening air and she sighed. She had avoided the thought, but it always found ways to creep up into her mind. She would be lying to herself if she didn't admit that one of the reasons she wanted to get away was Sherlock. Then, of course, there was her lawyer's letter that she had received two weeks ago and kept coming back to her mind, like a spark of an idea every time. The content of the letter was clear enough: one of her aunts – not even a close one and probably one of the last relatives Molly had in the country – had passed and Molly was the only heir. Molly remembered her aunt: she had visited her about three times when her parents were still alive, all before the accident a few years before. Still, she couldn't remember anything in particular, any particular conversation, just the good feeling associated with the name. The fact that she was her aunt's heir had come as a complete surprise and Molly found herself unable to have any feelings towards her aunt's death; she didn't know her enough to feel sad even, and Molly wondered what sort of person that made of her.

The contents of the will, however, presented themselves as quite interesting. A bit of money, though not a fortune per se, and a cottage on the countryside. The lawyer had shown Molly some pictures of the cottage; it was almost perfectly kept in what concerned the floor, ceilings and walls, and the garden would only require a bit of work. Some of the furniture, especially in the living room and bedrooms, was old but Molly figured out that with a bit of paint and some varnish she would still be able to give it a nice look.

Molly still wondered at first the use the cottage might have. She worked and lived in London and she would not move out of the city; she loved it too much to move away and her job was there, so London was the place where she would stay. But if she left the cottage alone for too long the signs of time and lack of use would start to show. She could rent it, but that would take time and she wanted to take a good look at it as soon as possible. With all these questions, her boss' words stared to come to her mind more and more often. Then, it had happened.

Molly had had another sleepless night and she was tired. Tossing and turning just to hear with a mix of dismal and thankfulness the ring of the alarm clock was unnerving. It was difficult to focus when her mind screamed for a rest it wouldn't allow her to take. She worked and did her best, but she felt quite susceptible. Talking with her lab partner helped; autopsying bodies and disintegrating bones helped as well, but it didn't heal. She didn't like being grumpy, so avoiding showing it for the sake of her colleagues was an extra effort. Then, Sherlock had come along.

Sherlock was usually rude. He had gotten better, but not entirely, and he walked into the morgue late at night, right as she was about to finish her shift and was finally starting to feel the effects of two sleepless nights and not a single cup of coffee. Her efforts were working at last and all she could think of was to go home, curl up in bed next to her cat Toby and fall asleep, before her mind regretted giving her that pleasure. Sherlock, however, had other plans.

He stormed into the morgue and Molly could tell he was not in the best of moods.

"I need you to do something for me."

He was usually attentive in his approach, and Molly wondered to which extent had she let him take advantage of her with his carefully crafted charm, combined with his knowledge of her infatuation for him, that he now asked in his usual demanding tone for her help without even bothering being kind to manipulate her. She took a deep breath and then considered. No, she would not bend this time. Even if he had at least pretended to take some interest in her to get his way she wouldn't have fallen for it, but like this it only made her decision an easier one.

"No," she said simply.

Sherlock stopped on his tracks; he was not even considering that answer, so he wasn't exactly waiting for a reply, ready to spill all of his wishes. He tilted his head slightly.

"What do you mean, no?"

Molly rolled her eyes.

"There's only one meaning for that word, Sherlock, no matter how much you ignore it and twist it at your leisure," she had no idea where this speech was coming. Maybe being sleepy did make her grumpy to the point that she was incapable of dealing with disrespect. "I am not going to help you, not now. My shift is over and I want to go home."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous," he ignored her words completely, moving on to his fast-paced speech. "There's a body that came to St. Bart's yesterday. I know it is a shot in the dark, and it may give you trouble, but I need you to see if the papers can still be changed and…"

Molly, who was making a last round to be sure all was in place for her night shift colleagues, turned around, facing him.

"Haven't you heard me? I am not faking papers for you again."

"This is important. A man may be arrested because-"

"You know what Sherlock?" Sherlock was now looking at her as if she was an alien. "You say that as if you cared about the man who is about to be arrested. You don't," she took a pause. "Three days ago you came here, asked me for some body parts and then left with what I gave you, without even answering the sole question I made you. I left you a message, asking about the case and if you had solved it, you didn't even bother answering it. And now you show up here out of the blue asking me to fake papers again, something that may get me into trouble, as if we had spoken just two days ago, as if every time you get your way and you don't need me anymore you haven't blatantly ignored me. My answer is no."

Sherlock stared at her.

"You're exaggerating." he said.

Molly looked at him and then at the floor.

"Maybe. It wouldn't have hurt to at least answer my invitation for my birthday dinner, though. Even if it had been – as I am sure it would be – a no."

Molly's birthday had probably been one of her most miserable ones. Lestrade was working and couldn't go – although he did send her some flowers and a cardigan as gifts. John was away from the country on a medical conference and even Mrs. Hudson was out of town, at her sister's. The rest of the people she knew worked at the hospital and she didn't feel close enough to them to invite them to her birthday. Still, even absent, they had all answered her invitation. All except Sherlock and that, more than anything, had given her the certainty of how insignificant she was in his eyes.

"Ah," Sherlock said, hands on his side. He had at least the decency to look embarrassed, "I am sorry about that. I have been busy."

Molly chuckled.

"Sure," she accepted, "And I am tired and I am going home."

She felt a twinge of guilt take over her as she walked away from a dumbfounded Sherlock, but the fact that he didn't try to reach her the next days attenuated the feeling. That night – that had seemed promising before Sherlock had walked into the morgue – had ended up as a sleepless one again. Sometimes she didn't even know why she had convinced herself that she was in love with him, and why no matter how much she tried, she couldn't make herself stop.

Molly got home and sat on her bed, thinking about all this, and how much it had weighed on her decision to escape for a while, to get away from everything. She hated that Sherlock was the main reason for it, but she was tired of worrying with things she couldn't change for now. So she tried to look on the vacations with enthusiasm and she packed her bags. She picked one of the pictures – the one that showed the entrance of her new cottage – and she placed a magnet on it, hanging it on the fridge's door. It seemed like a nice place and she had all intentions to make her time there the best she could. It would clear up her mind, and hopefully her heart as well.


	3. Where Have You Gone To, Molly Hooper

Chapter Three

Where Have You Gone To, Molly Hooper?

Sherlock left the hospital with annoyance, wondering why on Earth Molly had decided to take so much time off without consulting him. She was well aware he needed her quite often and that much of his research depended on her. He was doing this for the cases, to help Lestrade and to put in jail those who deserved to pay for their crimes.

Her colleague had said she would be gone for a month, at least. A whole month? What was she thinking, going away for so long? She hadn't even called him, and Sherlock checked his phone again, just to be sure he hadn't missed anything, but there was no text message or missed call from her either. He stopped on the pavement, not really looking at anything, just thinking. Even if Molly had taken days off, she would most likely still be in London. Knowing her as he knew, she would take the time off to stay at home without being bothered, or to meet some of her few friends. So maybe there was still a chance for his plans to turn out well. All he needed to do was to meet her at her flat and ask her to come to the morgue and do him this one favour. She would not refuse. Molly never refused him anything. He hailed a cab and put the phone back in his pocket.

Molly's flat was not very far from St. Bart's and even with the London traffic it took less than ten minutes to get there. It was on the opposite direction of Baker Street, and as every place in London, Sherlock knew the street like the back of his hand. Molly's flat was one of his many hiding places, when he needed some peace and quiet or when he wanted to dodge Mycroft. He paid the cab driver and he approached the door of the flat lot where Molly lived, inspecting it. He could see steps that had dragged dirt on the ground but none belonged to Molly. Not that he was expecting them to, after all hundreds of people walked by every day. He raised a hand and rang the bell, just once, and waited. No answer. He tried again. He looked around, and as he was about to inspect the back of the flat for an open backdoor or window that would grant him access inside, someone opened the front door.

Sherlock deduced the man straight away. In his thirties, married, accountant. Three kids and a small dog. In his hands he was carrying a newspaper, some letters and a set of keys. Molly's spare keys. Sherlock had first thought that the man could provide a good way to sneak into the apartment lot, but this was unexpected. He cleared his throat and tried to be amicable.

"Hello," the man turned to him, surprised. He had been fidgeting with the letters as he walked out of the door and had not yet acknowledged Sherlock. Sherlock continued. "I wonder if you know when your neighbour from the third B will return?"

The man took a second to think about the answer.

"Third B? Oh, that's Molly."

"Yes," Sherlock said, and he smiled, "Molly Hooper. She's a friend of mine, and I wanted to reach her but I rang and she isn't home."

"Oh, no, Molly is away on vacations."

"Away?" The question had come out a bit more aggressive than Sherlock desired, and he composed himself, trying to look sad. "Oh, that's a shame. I'm a friend of hers."

Sherlock extended a hand to the man, with hopes that even without a name he would shake it and introduce himself.

"Oh, nice to meet you. I'm Andrew. Molly asked me to gather up her mail and check the flat whilst she's away."

Sherlock smiled, pleased that his strategy had worked.

"Is she going to stay away for long?"

The man nodded.

"A month. She really deserves it."

"Oh, yes, she works so hard. I work at the hospital," it was painful for Sherlock to make this sort of circumstantial talk but he needed to find out where Molly had gone to, "And she's always there. Christmas, New Year's. She's very nice to everyone."

The man stared at Sherlock for a second.

"You're Sherlock Holmes."

The smile fell from Sherlock's face as he decided what to do.

"Yes," he answered, still agreeable, "I do some experiments at the lab and Molly always helps me out. So I was wondering where I could find her, since she was not at the hospital."

The man kept Molly's apartment keys in his pocket.

"Yeah, well, she is on vacations now. So, you'll have to wait for her return."

The conversation was now politely cold, and Andrew started to pace away but Sherlock tried to intersect him.

"Can't you at least tell me where she went so I can reach her?"

"You can reach her by phone, if she didn't turn it off. If she did, it's because she doesn't want to be bothered, so you should leave her alone." he stared straight at Sherlock. "Maybe it's actually better if you do leave her alone."

And without giving Sherlock any room to retort or continue the conversation, he walked away quickly, without looking back.

Sherlock pursed his lips, annoyed. Apparently he was a regular conversation theme amongst Molly's friends, who seemed to know more about him than he wished. He considered trying the back of the house, and break in; he was good at that.

He circled the street and saw that the back of the block of flats had a metal set of stairs, used in case of fire, and to ease the firemen access to the windows. The balcony of each flat, however, was not exactly close. Sherlock could try and jump, but in pure daylight that would bring undesired attention. He would have to wait. It was okay, he could wait.

He turned on his heels and walked to find a cab that would take him back to Baker Street.

Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket just as he closed the front door of his flat behind him. He looked at the screen and Lestrade's name was flashing there, but before Sherlock could answer Mrs. Hudson came out of her own flat.

"Sherlock, you have a client."

Sherlock looked up at her, ignoring Lestrade's call and putting the phone back in his pocket.

"A client?"

"Yes, he arrived about ten minutes ago. I said you were gone and I didn't know when you would be back, but he insisted in waiting, so I served him tea and he is waiting upstairs."

Sherlock nodded. His phone buzzed again but he ignored it again and went up the stairs alone, as Mrs. Hudson disappeared back to her flat.

The client was a short, dark man with salt and pepper hair, and worn out hands. He was wearing a grey tweed coat and matching trousers and carried a letter in his hand. A lawyer's letter, from the printing on the envelope. Good, expensive paper, which meant that the man had money. Sherlock never liked those with much money; they were eager and convinced they could buy just any service, including Sherlock's. He walked silently into the flat and the man, who was sitting on John's chair, turned to him and got up abruptly.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock removed his gloves, coat and scarf and hung it behind the door, paying close to no attention to the man, but reading all he needed all the same.

"Yes," he said, calmly. "What is your case?"

The man approached Sherlock and extended a hand, almost bowing.

"Peter Abney," the man said. Sherlock shook his hand for a second, and then invited the man to sit down again. The man obeyed, almost with a reverence Sherlock was not expecting. "I need your help, Mr. Holmes."

"Obviously," Sherlock said. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't."

Sherlock sat down in front of him and then raised both hands in front of his mouth, palms against each other. He was listening. The man looked puzzled for a second and then began to talk.

"My sheep have been disappearing," he started, and Sherlock had the confirmation of what he had long deduced. The man was a shepherd, born and raised in the country, rarely left it. The trip had made him nervous; he had bit two nails on his left hand but nothing else showed any sign that he did it regularly. The suit he was wearing was practically brand new as well as the shoes; those were clothes he wore seldom, on special occasions. His calloused hands, especially on his palm, right under his thumb, showed the rest. "And I have livestock insurance," he showed Sherlock the letter with the papers he had been carrying, "But they refuse to pay because the sheep, dead or alive, just won't show up. You see, it's like they disappear. Every day I collect them back to their shelter and in the morning, as I count them, there's always one or two missing. I don't know who is taking them, but the insurance…"

"You want me to find who is stealing your sheep?" Sherlock interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, of course," the man said, matter-of-factly, "I don't know who else to ask."

Sherlock frowned and then took a deep breath, placing both open hands on his knees.

"Mr. Abney, I don't have time for such a trivial matter, and surely you…"

"It is not a trivial matter!" the man almost shouted, leaning forward in his chair, getting closer to Sherlock. "It's my work and my form of income."

"It's not a matter for me to take care of."

"Of course it is! I called the police; they were unable to find anything!"

"That doesn't surprise me," Sherlock responded, getting up. "Listen, Mr. Abney, I am sorry that you are losing your sheep, but there's really nothing I can do about it. I am in the middle of an investigation at the moment; I can't just leave for Sussex to take care of robbed sheep."

The man, who had mimicked Sherlock and had stood up as well, was taken aback.

"How do you know I came from Sussex?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You have heard of me, of my reputation, yes?"

The man nodded.

"Then you should know how. Now if you don't mind, I have more important matters to turn my attention to. Just try to think of anyone your dog trusts and you'll probably have the answer there."

The man frowned.

"My dog?"

"Yes. It is guarding the sheep and the property at night, is it not?" the man nodded slowly. "Then whoever is stealing your sheep must be someone your dog knows and trusts."

"My dog doesn't know anyone. Only my son."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side a little.

"He's been out of town for over two months, he's studying at University. It can't be him." the man defended.

"Then your son is already someone you can cross out of the list, isn't it?"

And before the man could try and add anything else Sherlock indicated the door. The man stopped, disappointment all over his face.

"Here," he still said, "Is my phone number. If you change your mind."

Sherlock, out of politeness, took the paper the man extended and then watched him walking down the stairs. Lestrade had called him twice during the conversation with the man but Sherlock had no interest in replying to him. He had told Lestrade that as soon as he had news he would contact him, so it really annoyed him that Inspector kept calling him as if Sherlock owned him anything.

He stared at the paraphernalia standing over the kitchen table, that Mrs. Hudson had surely tried to clean up before receiving the man who had just left the flat, and his mind wandered off to Molly again. Then, he threw the paper with the phone number he was still holding to one of the desks, barely noticing what he was doing, and it fell to the floor. He had to wait for the evening to see if there was any lead that might guide him back to Molly at her flat, but for a moment he stopped on his tracks, wondering why Molly's return seemed so important when he had just blatantly ignored Lestrade's calls, and he needed Molly because of that case. He shrugged his shoulders, picked up the phone, dialled Lestrade's number and sat at the kitchen table, analysing what he was able to for now. Lestrade's voice at the other end of the line was angry and demanding, and Sherlock let him talk, answering merely what he had to.


	4. Hitting The Road And Breaking In

Chapter Four

Hitting The Road And Breaking In

Molly rolled the window of her old _Fiat 600 _down, allowing the cold air to refresh her warm face. With all the excitement she had forgotten to remove her knitted cap, and if she was honest to herself it wasn't all that cold. Not enough to wear a cap anyway, but she loved that one dearly. It had been a present from a friend she had met at college, for her 22nd birthday and Molly smiled as the memory of the party she had had that year came to her. She had no idea what had happened to that friend, only that she had moved abroad, and Molly wondered why it seemed that all her friends ended up leaving, in the end. She had a handful of them, and she was not complaining, but at times she felt lonely. Most of her friends were now married, and had a family and that wasn't very handy when she needed someone to go to the movies with, or just to go out and have dinner. They did that once in a while, but not as often as Molly wished they would.

She removed the cap and placed it on her lap, looking at the road ahead. The car was behaving better than she had expected. It had been purchased more as a whim than as a necessity, and with London's wide transport network it was simpler and cheaper for her to use the subway to move around the city. The dark blue colour was scratched in places and the boot was very small – so small that most of her bags were now packed in the backseat. Nevertheless, she loved that car and sometimes she used to take it for a ride outside of London, just to keep it going and to do something she loved so much but didn't have much chance to do: driving.

The key to the cottage had been obtained a few days before, delivered to her by the lawyer who had taken care of all the paperwork and inheritance demands. She had now in her possession the papers that cited to whom the house belonged. It was weird to own something she hadn't purchased, and she wondered what the cottage must look like live. She had seen pictures but they don't always make things justice. She was excited and relaxed and she couldn't remember feeling like this in a long time. She wasn't even thinking about her job, nor Sherlock. Well, not as much as usual, anyway. She was going to have a peaceful month, with no drama nor self-pity, but amongst plants and flowers and renovation tools.

On the passenger seat, inside a proper cat carrier, Toby meowed languidly and Molly smiled, looking at him.

"Bored already?" she asked, because like any animal owner, she talked to her cat more often than not, even if he couldn't answer. "It's not such a long drive. I'll let you out when we get there."

She was glad Toby was not the sort of cat that stayed in all day, but always returned. This way she didn't have to worry about him disappearing as she did her things in the cottage, which had been one of the reasons she had decided to bring him along with her. Her friends would take care of him, if she asked, but his company was always welcomed and she enjoyed her monologues more when they were directed at the cat.

The radio was playing very low and as a ray of sun hit the window shield a new song began, one that Molly recognised well. She smiled and then turned the radio up, tapping with her fingers on the wheel and singing, in a deliberately out of tune voice, 'Hit the road, Jack,' which seemed quite appropriate for the moment.

* * *

><p>Asking Lestrade nonchalantly if he had any idea where Molly had disappeared to had been a lot more difficult than Sherlock had supposed. Lestrade made him a lot of questions about it, with a snide tone to his voice, until finally confessing he had no idea where she was gone, nor that she had left the hospital to go on vacations, so he couldn't help him. Sherlock had repeated three times that he was only wondering because he needed Molly for a case, and by the end of the call he was sure Lestrade had never doubted that; he was just amused at how hopeless Sherlock seemed without Molly's help. Sherlock didn't like to hear that. He as capable of solving murders all by himself, even if he did prefer John's company to do so, and even if Molly's help was precious in making things go faster. But he was not hopeless without her, in any sense. When Sherlock hung up the phone he could still hear the mocking laughter on the other side of the line. Lestrade could laugh all he wanted, but without Molly his case was going to take longer to solve, so he was the one who had all to lose. Sherlock was doing this more for fun, to keep himself busy, but Lestrade's job depended on figuring out who the murder was.<p>

Sherlock sighed and looked out of the window, wishing it was evening already. He went back to his microscope and he lit up a cigarette, that he let burn completely to ashes without touching it once.

When the evening came and the city turned on its lights Sherlock went to his room and changed clothes. If he wanted to be stealthy he might as well take all the precautions. He changed his white shirt for a black one and put on a black scarf instead of his dark blue. He left the house and took a cab, leaving a few streets before Molly's house. Before reaching the front of her building he turned left. He didn't want to be seen near her place, so he took the long way to the back of the building. Luckily, the street was deserted and had almost no movement, just a back alley used mostly by garbage trucks and dog's owners on their daily walks. He moved steadily, not in his usual imposing manner, but much more discreet. Anyone who'd see him now would even say he looked smaller, less peculiar. He waited a moment, leaning against a wall, and looked around. The building in front was also the back of another building, and only one light was on at the top of it. Luckily, the streetlamp right beside Molly's window was turned off, most likely burned out. Sherlock realised that jumping from the stairs to the balcony without making any noise would be difficult, but he wasn't going to back off now. If he jumped as he was planning to he could crouch for a moment before checking for unwanted looks. It was worth the try.

He went up the metal staircase carefully, holding with both hands and walking fast but making sure not to make much noise. He levelled himself up with Molly's balcony and then looked down. If he fell he would be quite done for. He shook his head, refusing to think of it, as it brought him no advantage and he focused on his movements. He climbed a few more stairs, to be able to jump downwards, positioned himself, and finally took the jump.

The distance wasn't big, but he fell with a thump against the cement floor of the balcony, his feet first, and he tried to plunge his hands forward to help the fall, realising he wouldn't have a chance to do that. His elbow went first as he lost his balance, and even though he was crouched he fell on his side, hitting with his upper arm on the ground. He waited for a moment, but there was no sound. He stayed there a bit longer, his shoulder holding his weight, and then slowly he raised his body from the ground, still sitting. He didn't seem to have called attention to himself, even after the loud sound of his feet hitting the floor. Good. The last thing he needed was to have someone calling the police. Still sitting he removed his tools from his jacket's inside pocket and picked the ones he needed to open the back window. It was a sliding window and usually it should be a difficult sort of window to open forcefully, but unfortunately for Molly, Sherlock had experienced on this exact window to practise his skills many times before, so to open it now was a no brainer. The window's lock clicked and Sherlock made it slide, still careful and silently. He extended a hand to remove the curtains to the side and then he closed the window shut again. He did not intend to leave through here.

The house was silent and dark. Sherlock knew his way around pretty well and the light that entered through the kitchen window provided enough illumination to allow him to walk without tripping on anything. He could see contours and shapes. It was all very tidy, in place. Molly was not as disorganised as Sherlock but he had seen her house on many occasions, and she always kept books around, everywhere: on the couch, on the kitchen, over chairs. Right now, they were all in the big shelf that covered the back wall, right above the black sofa. Sherlock approached it and noticed a few volumes missing. Mostly romances and novels, light reading that Sherlock deduced Molly had taken with her wherever she had gone to. He inspected her room, but there was not much to see. She did have books over her night stand, all tidied up in a pile, three of them with bookmarks, but those were technical books, medical ones. He didn't want to fumble through her things unless completely necessary. He checked the bathroom – her toothbrush was gone, but her perfume was still lying there, next to the sink, as well as some bottles of shampoo and shower gel. Her flat was small and only the kitchen was left to see. The kitchen was separated from the living room only by a counter and Sherlock took a step forward and entered it. It was meticulously clean. He noticed something new, though. There was a new picture on the fridge, held there by a heart shaped magnet. He picked it up, his hands handling the magnet and putting it back in place, and he held the picture in his long fingers. It was a cottage. Sherlock turned the picture around and on the back, in Molly's handwriting, there was a quote.

'"There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind." C.S. Lewis.'

She had drawn a heart at the bottom of it, and Sherlock frowned. He turned the picture to face the image of the cottage again and he tried to recognise the place. There wasn't much to guide him, he realised. He put the picture back in place, making sure he left it right as it was, though he was sure Molly wouldn't notice any small change. He sighed. Whatever that place was, he knew now that that's where Moly went.

Sherlock pulled his phone out of the pocket and for the third time that day he tried to call her. The phone went once again directly to voicemail, Molly's message encouraging whoever is calling to leave a message and that she will contact them very soon. No other information. Sherlock bites his lip and scoffs in frustration, wondering if Molly left deliberately to avoid him, if she would call him back had he left her a message and if so, if she would return at his request. No, he realised, if he wanted Molly to return he would have to find where she was and go get her.

He looked around, realising with a heavy heart that there was only one way for him to find her current location. He took a picture of the cottage's photo with his phone and then sent a message to Mycroft. It was all for work, he reassured himself. His mobile rang a few seconds later and he picked it up, reluctantly.

"Why on heard do you need to know where this is?" Mycroft asked, amusement in his tone.

"None of your business," Sherlock replied. He realised immediately that the answer had been a mistake, because he would not need to be so defensive if it had no importance. He could have just said that it was for a case. He shut is eyes closed, cursing himself and then answered, more friendly, or at least as friendly as he ever talked to his brother. "It's for a case."

He could hear Mycroft smiling on the other side of the line.

"A case called Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock opened his eyes in surprise. How could Mycroft possibly know that? Before he could answer his brother continued. "She's in Sussex. The cottage is an inheritance. Why do you need to find her?"

Sherlock frowned.

"How on earth do you know that?"

"I keep your friends close, Sherlock. Just in case. Can't risk anyone using any of them against you, can I?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"I thought you'd be delighted with anyone doing exactly so."

Mycroft smiled.

"Yes, but mummy would kill me if I wasn't careful enough to assure that you are safe with all the means I have. God knows that that would be far kinder than having to deal with her anger."

Sherlock knew Mycroft kept a strict surveillance on Baker Street and on John, but he had no idea he did the same with Molly.

"What about Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, trying to divert the subject of the conversation for now. "Do you keep an eye on him as well?"

"I said all your friends, some more than others."

There was a tone in Mycroft's voice that Sherlock could not identify but he had other things to worry about at the moment. "Do you have the address?" he asked.

Mycroft sighed.

"Yes, I do. I'll send it to you in a moment," There was a short silence as Mycroft measured his words. "Has it occurred to you that maybe one of the reasons she left was because she wanted to get away from you?"

Sherlock found it strange that Mycroft was touching the subject; he was not given to talking about such mundane matters like Molly's infatuation for him.

"No," Sherlock lied, "It hasn't. She has no reason to get away from me and I need her to get me something at the morgue. The guy who's there now replacing her is a moron and I have a case to solve."

"Sherlock…"

Mycroft's tone was almost patronising.

"Don't Sherlock me," Sherlock cut, "Send me the address and don't think about this anymore. I'll take care of things my way."

Mycroft acquiesced and as Sherlock was about to hang up, he added.

"Yes, you will, won't you? Or maybe things will take care of themselves for you."

Sherlock didn't even waste time replying to that. He hung up and a moment later, as he was exiting the building through the main door, he felt a buzz in his pocket. He memorised the address straight away, and rushed to find a cab back home.

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Hudson!"<p>

Sherlock's voice echoed around the room, loud and clear. He heard rushed steps and saw Mrs. Hudson's figure as she entered the room.

"You're going to wake up the neighbours!" she complained.

Sherlock got up and looked at her, deducing her daily activities straight away.

"You've been cleaning today haven't you?" he came closer to her, and Mrs. Hudson stepped back a little. "You're wearing your cleaning clothes and you didn't finish a long time ago, since you haven't changed yet, you only had time to make some tea."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him and answered. "Yes, I have in fact. It was a mess. It's a shame, Sherlock, you receive your clients and they get in and the house is all upside down, filled with dust and…"

"Where is it?" Sherlock asked, looking around again. "I threw a paper to the floor this morning, right here," he pointed at the spot, "And now it is gone."

"Well, I have vacuumed the floor, haven't I? If you threw it away I probably got it in the vacuum cleaner's bag."

"Go get it!" Sherlock demanded.

"I can't go get it!" Mrs. Hudson retorted.

Sherlock approached her again and held her arm.

"Mrs. Hudson, that was important. Go get the bag."

"I can't!" she almost shouted. "It was full, I threw it away."

"Then we need to look in the garbage, don't we?"

"No, because I took the trash out today, they must be collecting it this evening."

Sherlock heard the sound of a truck as it pulled outside and without wasting any more time talking to Mrs. Hudson he rushed down the stairs. The truck was still collecting a few garbage bags from other houses and Sherlock realised what he was about to do. He recognised Mrs. Hudson's garbage and he opened the bag carefully, disgusted. He needed to find the vacuum cleaner's bag and he hoped that it had been one of the last items she had thrown away. Luckily, it had been. He turned the lid of one of the trash cans around and then started to empty the contents of the bag into it. He found what he was looking for easily enough, put the bag and all the dust and dirt that had been inside it back into the garbage bag and then closed the trash can, but this time, getting much closer to Sherlock, the dustman were looking at him with curiosity. He didn't stay to explain it to them and he shook his clothes to remove all the dust from them, before storming up the stairs again. Mrs. Hudson, who was more than used to Sherlock's endeavours, had retrieved to her own flat. Sherlock looked at the clock, wondering if it was too late to call, but decided that it wasn't. He inserted the number written down on the paper into his mobile and it rang four times. When the man on the other side of the line picked up, Sherlock spoke.

"Mr. Abney? I'll take your case."


	5. The Cottage

Chapter Five

The Cottage

Molly held the wheel tighter as the car approached and she had a first glimpse of the cottage. She smiled. Indeed, the photos did not do it justice. She drove on the macadam road and stopped the car in front of the house, next to a flowerbed of round-headed rampions. She cut the car's engine off and then, with a strange feeling of belonging, she opened the door and walked out of it.

The midday sun was now shining bright, but as an autumn sun goes, Molly could still feel the cold wind biting her face. That didn't bother her in the least. The trees of the forest that surrounded the cottage were all coloured in brown, red and yellow and the leaves were starting to fall to the ground, laying a mat of colour on the yellowed grass. The cottage in itself was adorable; it didn't look excessively big on the outside, the roof was round and thatched, the walls were made of small stones and the wooden doors and windows were of a beautiful dark blue. On the right side of the house there was a big window that covered the wall almost entirely and a door that led to a wooden porch, supporting a dark blue hammock that matched the doors and windows. A bit further from the house, a small stream ran under an old bridge crafted with dark wood and supplemented by a single lamppost; the bridge made it possible to cross the water, leading to another part of the forest. It was the loveliest place Molly had ever seen.

She smiled at the sight, and closed the door of the car, going around it, fetching Toby. The cat meowed again and she carried him inside his bag, locking the doors of the car. She fussed with her own shoulder bag but finally found the keys. She took a last look at the outside of the house, breathing in the fresh scents of the country side. Then, she turned the key on the lock and opened the door.

It was dark; the blinds on the windows were all closed and Molly could only see a dim beam of light ahead, which she assumed was coming from the small glass on the door that led to the porch. She put Tobias down and then she felt the wall, trying to find the light switch. She flicked it and the house finally greeted her.

The hall was just a small division with a shoe cabinet and a hanger. On the wall a mirror showed Molly her own reflection and she looked at herself briefly before crossing the hall into what she found out was the living room. The furniture was all covered with white sheets, making the main room where she was standing look like a painting of weird shapes. Molly opened the two windows – a small one that pointed to the front of the house and the big one that pointed to the porch - and then, with a little bit of effort, she opened the blue blinders that protected both windows from the outside as well. The light finally entered the room, and Molly could see little particles of dust dancing around her. She looked around and started to remove the sheets covering the furniture, thrilled and expectant.

There was a rectangular dinner table made of dark wood at the centre. It was scratched in places and there were four chairs standing around it. The sofa placed against the wall was the same colour as the hammock, and matched the doors and windows: dark blue, worn out, but looking like the perfect place to curl up and read a book. There was a small coffee table right in front of the sofa, separating it from the fireplace. To Molly's satisfaction there were also small coarse shelves settled on the walls of the living room in various random places, which would offer the perfect spot for her books. Everything there seemed to be handmade from the same type of wood. It was all filled with dust, but it was better than Molly could ever expect. She inspected the door that led to the porch and realising it was locked she retrieved the keys she had left on the front door, bringing Toby with her this time. She would not let him loose yet, though. She fiddled with the lock and opened the door, pacing on the porch, feeling the rough wood and the fabric of the hammock underneath her fingers. Then, she decided to go explore the rest of the house.

There wasn't much of it still to delve into. Two rooms, one of them a bedroom, the other some sort of office or library, with a big shelf alone covering the back wall; one large bathroom with a large bath, and the cutest kitchen Molly had ever seen. It had a rusty stove, and a traditional wood-fired oven. There was no table there, but there were cupboards all around the division, both next to the floor and on the walls. Dark blue wood, just like the windows.

Molly sighed. This was far better than she had ever hoped for. Everything in the house seemed to fit perfectly together, even if most things seemed to have been placed there randomly. It had more of a rustic look to it than an old sense, and as she walked again inside the bedroom, Molly looked outside the window. There was also a tools' shed at the back of the house and a narrow path curled its way into the forest, stretching out of sight. Molly wondered where it led to. Then she realised with satisfaction that she would have time to find out. For now, she had a bed, a closet to keep her clothes, shelves for her books and even a hammock to rest and read and swing leisurely. A new house all to herself, ready to be explored and decorated as she desired.

Back in the living room, Molly opened Toby's bag and let him free. The cat smelled the floor and then walked away as if he owned the place. Molly brought the rest of her bags inside and got to work.


	6. Moving Out And Settling In

Chapter Six

Moving Out And Settling In

"Okay, tell me again why are you dashing to Sussex out of the blue?"

John was staring at Sherlock the next day, whilst leaning against Sherlock's bedroom door, both arms folded in front of his chest.

"I'm not dashing off," Sherlock replied, without looking at John, picking up a few shirts from his closet and folding them carefully, stacking them after inside his suitcase, "I have a case."

"You have a case in London, too."

Sherlock opened his nightstand drawer, packed his mobile's charger and a few other things that might be of use and then closed the suitcase, pulling the zip all the way around.

"Yes, but I am in a bit of an impasse with that case, so I am going to Sussex and solve this one first."

"Are you confident that you will solve it that fast?"

"Maybe," Was all Sherlock said. "Listen," he told John, looking at him now, "It's not my fault you're not coming. Apologies for not being here to fulfil your need for danger."

The whole sentence was said in a mocking tone, as if it was John's choice to remain in town.

"I don't have any other option," John retorted, "I have to show up at the surgery when I have patients. It's a good job, they pay well and, as you know, I don't have a brother that fills up my bank account once in a while," Sherlock shook his head and then passed him by, carrying the suitcase in his hand. "And I don't have a need for danger," John still added, following Sherlock into the living room.

Sherlock scoffed.

"Of course not," he looked out of the window, kept his violin in its case so it wouldn't get dust on while he was away, and then approached the door, putting on his coat and gloves. "My brother doesn't fill up my bank account. Ever. Everything I have is fruit of my own work."

"Well, lucky for you, your own work has no schedules and you have no boss. Mine does and depends on the person who hires me and, as it is, I can't go with you."

"Spoilsport," Sherlock said.

"You have a case to solve in London and you are leaving to take care of something else, and I am the spoilsport?" John shook his head and headed to the kitchen to make some tea. "What's the case about, anyway?"

"Missing sheep."

And without further explanation, Sherlock put on his scarf, picked up his suitcase, and ran down the stairs to meet the cab waiting for him outside.

* * *

><p>Molly made sure all windows of the house were opened and then she stood in the living room, wondering what she had better do first. She decided that it was preferable to settle in; after all she was going to stay there for a while so there was no use in keeping her clothes packed.<p>

Not knowing exactly what she would find there she had brought the things she might need for the first day: sheets and blankets for the bed, clean towels and hygiene accessories, food, water and tea. She was glad she had done so, because there wasn't all that much in the house that she could use. There were a couple sheets in the bedroom's wardrobe but Molly realised they were very worn out, so she put them aside to use for something else. The mattress on the bed was still in good shape, and clean, so she laid out the sheets, her pillow, and a couple blankets, none of which was very thick. She hoped they were enough to keep her warm through that first night. She hanged the towels in the bathroom and then picked the bag of groceries she had bought on her way there and stored some of the groceries in the fridge and some in the cupboards.

She assumed that the law firm that had contacted her had also taken care of hiring a cleaning service before delivering her the cottage's key; everything was too clean for a vacations house that, according to the lawyer, her aunt had seldom used the last few years. She was glad for that, it made everything easier. Even a few mugs and pans had been left there, and cutlery, old but washed.

She finished settling in by placing the books she had brought with her on the shelves. She debated in placing them in the living room or at the small library at the back, but favoured the living room; after all she was sure she would spend more time there. For starters, it had a place to sit, something the library lacked. Toby walked around her, following her at every step.

"New place, hey? Do you like it? It's nice, isn't it?" Molly asked him.

The cat meowed, as it always did when she spoke to it. Molly placed its carrier – that would also serve as its bed – next to the fireplace and then she left through the porch door.

The sun was now lower in the sky and Molly looked at her clock. She hadn't realised time had gone by so fast, busy with putting everything in place and exploring the house. She approached the small tools shack at the back of the cottage and tried to open the big old wooden gate. It was locked so she went back to the house and came back with the set of keys. It wasn't difficult to find out which one belonged there; a big rusty key, like those skeleton keys seen in movies that open the doors of old, abandoned places. Molly laughed at the thought and tried it on the lock. It took a bit of effort to open, but she finally managed it. When the lock turned Molly opened the gate wide, letting the sun in.

It was empty except for a bit of junk. Old wood, metal, and some shelves that had seen better days. It was a tools shack with no tools in it whatsoever. That had been a bit of a disappointment, as Molly had seen, in her exploration of the house, a few things that needed handling, and having tools available would allow her to at least try to take care of it. This way she would have to be the one to give the tools shack what it needed to be worth its name. Although in this case empty wasn't that bad. She could shelter her car there. The door locked so it was safe, and it was just big enough to keep her tiny Fiat inside. The cottage seemed to be the only house nearby, but since she didn't know the place, it was better to be safe than sorry.

She rummaged through the junk and found a metal box that would be handy to use as Toby's litter box, as she had left its back in London, – too big to take with her – she took it to the inside of the house, washed it in the bathtub and prepared it. Then she washed her own hands and went outside again. She parked her car inside the shack, locked it up, and walked up to the bridge. She wondered if the lamppost was working, but there was no way of knowing it during the day. She knelt down and let the cold water of the stream run between her fingers, whilst Toby tried to jump onto her lap. Molly squirted him with some water and Tobias ran away, meowed in complaint, and returned to her side. Molly petted him a few times and then she went back inside.

She realised she was hungry. She made some tea using the stove – she needed to buy a proper kettle as soon as possible – and then she picked up a new book to read, and sat comfortably on the sofa. Toby came to nest on her lap and Molly sighed, satisfied.

When the sun set – early at this time of the year – the little light on the lamppost by the bridge flickered to life. Molly smiled. Somehow, it felt like home already.


	7. Breaking Down

**I have been writing Molly's cat's name wrong for six chapters before I realised my mistake. It's Toby, not Tobias, and it's fixed now. **  
><strong>My knowledge of mechanics is zero, and my research to find an actual mechanic fault that could be so easily fixed, fruitless. I do apologise if such thing doesn't exist, but this is fiction after all. Please, go with it. :)<strong>

* * *

><p>Chapter Seven<p>

Breaking Down

Molly woke up early with a vague idea of falling asleep on the sofa with Toby on her lap and dragging herself reluctantly to bed in the middle of the night.

Now, she felt a bit stiff, although she couldn't blame the mattress for it. It always took her a few days to adjust to new beds. Her wristwatch informed her that she had slept for about seven hours, which was her normal sleeping pattern. She stretched herself on the bed and yawned, relishing on the warmth underneath the sheets and a well-slept night. Then, she got up.

When she entered the living room in search of her slippers, she saw that Toby had spilled a great deal of its litter box and she realised she had no way to sweep and clean it. She sighed. Toby's excitement with the new place was bound to subside eventually, but she could tell this might be a problem to deal with every morning on the first few days, so she moved the litter box to the small library next to her bedroom. She did not intend to use that room for now, so if Toby happened to scatter the sand from the litter box on the floor, it wouldn't be as inconvenient.

Going into town was a necessity now. It wasn't just the sand for the cat, but she had to buy food and other supplies, as well as tools. The door of her room, as well as the window, screeched at the hinges and she also intended to plant a few flowers at the back of the house; all that was currently growing there were wild flowers and weeds.

She was hungry, so she had breakfast first and then she decided to take a shower and get ready to leave. She knew that if she came back in time to work at the garden she would get dirty again, but it was cold, and a warm shower would make her feel better and help her wake up completely.

The pipes creaked when Molly put the water to run and it took a while for it to warm up to a decent temperature, but when it did Molly was able to have a nice, hot shower.

She dried herself carefully but quickly and while she got dressed she made a mental note to buy some bubble bath, as she wanted to try the bathtub later on.

She was not sure how long she would stay out but she made sure Toby had enough food and water, and then she left the house, locking the door.

* * *

><p>The grocery list was extensive. Molly decided to leave the food for last, so she checked a map before getting on the road, trying to memorize the way that led her to the centre of town. She was not sure where the stores were located, but she decided that the best was to stop at a gas station and ask there for directions. A shame she had forgotten to check that information before leaving London, but she had no internet access here, so she would have to use what she had available. Molly drove the car out of the garage and selected the closest gas station on her GPS.<p>

People gave her exhaustive directions of where she should go. There was a small complex of stores where she could find most of the things she needed on the other side of town and the way there was straightforward enough. She paid for the gas, thanked them and then she got back on the road again.

There was a big do-it-yourself shop where she found most of what she needed: gardening tools, a colourful sprinkler, paint and brushes, potting soil and vases, a torch, oil for the door hinges, a broom and dustpan, a mop, two buckets, and some spare lamps, just in case. She also bought some gardening gloves and, for giggles, a big straw hat. There were also seeds of various plants and flowers available, and Molly picked a couple, with the colours she favoured the most. She wondered if there was any use in planting flowers outside; after all, despite the wonderful sun and dry weather of the moment, it was October and cold, and most flowers wouldn't survive the snow, if it came. She picked a few more vases from the shelf; if she couldn't have the flowers outside, she would keep them in the house, but she was not willing to give up on her sudden excitement for gardening.

She also bought sand for Toby's litter box and food for it on a pet store. She was staring at a new bed and a cat scratching post, wondering if she should spend money on it, and decided that she wanted to make Toby's stay there as comfortable as hers, so she bought him the comfiest bed she could find and paid it, satisfied. In the end she went back to the do-it-yourself store and bought a cat flap and tools to install it on the porch door, so that Toby could go in and out without needing Molly to be able to do so. She hoped, as she heard the explanation of the store's employer on how to install it, to be able to manage it.

Next on her list were bedclothes. She was going to be there for a month, but she needed to change them every week, and she wanted to leave a few things there as well, as she intended to visit the cottage, and spend weekends on it regularly without having to bring everything from London with her. She picked up a few sheets and blankets and two duvets. One was blue and matched the windows and doors perfectly. She also bought a few pillows for the sofa, as well as a blanket, all in matching colours, so she could curl up and read there comfortably.

In an old store she found pans and plates, and the so necessary kettle. The owner of the store was a chatty old man and he kept trying to persuade her to buy things she didn't need. He managed, eventually; Molly left the place with a radio and a few CD's, wine glasses, a few candles and two candlesticks as well. She had to admit that the man knew how to sell, had good taste in music and still made her a good price for the whole lot.

She packed everything on the back of her car and then decided to have lunch out at a pub; she was starving and all that was left to buy were groceries and hygiene products, so she could eat first. She got on her car, admired the quantity of things she had bought and then she started driving. She checked the map of Sussex she had in the glove compartment and took a look through the advertisings. She ended up choosing a pub located a bit out of town; it had a cosy look to it, and it was bound to be less crowded. She put the address on the GPS and drove.

The pub, Molly came to find out, was owned by the same people who ran the lovely bed and breakfast just across the street, and therefore it looked more like a small family restaurant than anything else, but the food was amazing. Molly ordered a steak and then, overcoming her shyness, she asked around what was worth seeing there. She expected to be able to take a look around town as soon as everything was in place at the cottage, and asking the people of town about points of interest was usually good policy. They didn't really answer her question, though; they told her about the Newhaven Fort, the main businesses in town, and they wrote down a list of other museums that supposedly were worth seeing, but they hadn't seen themselves. Molly finished her meal, paid, and thanked them, promising she would return some other time.

She was starting to get tired. She liked the idea of shopping, but doing it was sometimes more exhaustive than fun. As she headed back to the centre of the town the car began to make a strange noise and Molly held on to the wheel, slowing down instinctively. With a loud thump the car came to a halt all by itself. Molly turned off the key and then turned it on again. The engine didn't start. It only made a choked up noise and then went dead again.

"Oh no, this was all I needed now."

Molly waited a few more minutes and tried again, with the same results. She got out of the car. She opened up the bonnet and looked inside. She had no idea what to look for; if there was something she knew nothing about, that was cars. Ask her to open up a body and nominate all that was inside it, no problem; fixing a mechanical fault, not her area.

She picked up her purse and fussed with its contents, realising with a heavy heart that her phone was turned off. She tried to turn it on and after a few failed attempts accepted the fact that it had no battery left. She had neglected it because she never thought she would need it. Plus, she wanted at all costs avoid unwanted calls. She had gone there to rest and relax, not to worry with technology or even work; although at the moment technology was proven to be a necessary evil. She cursed herself. The street was empty. How on earth was she going to get out of this one now?

* * *

><p>Sherlock was sitting in the back of the cab, looking around. Sussex was less than two hours away from London, and thankfully his cab driver had gotten the message when Sherlock had dismissed his conversation; he realised Sherlock wanted to be left in quiet, so he let him be. Now the radio was playing some classical music and Sherlock was tapping with his fingers on his dark jeans, dissecting the melody into notes, hearing in his mind what it would sound like played in his violin, the movements he would have to execute to give it life. The road was deserted and there was nothing but trees and fields around. He could see the river in the distance and the he looked to the left side window. The cab was going fast and Sherlock saw a car stopped by the side of the road, the bonnet opened and a woman looking at the engine. Sherlock followed the sight by the rear-view mirror.<p>

"Stop!"

The cab driver put his foot on the break instinctively at Sherlock's demand and looked back.

"I know that person."

The cab driver chuckled.

"Nice try, mate, but you'll have to pay your fare."

Sherlock frowned.

"What?"

"If you want to leave the cab you'll have to pay your fare first."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"How much?" he asked.

The man told him the value and Sherlock retrieved his wallet from the pocket of his jacket and paid. He then opened the door of the cab and got out, "Wait here," he asked.

"I don't have all day, mate. I can't just be waiting for you. I have an appointment today back in London."

"I'll pay you!" Sherlock cut off, a bit louder than necessary, and then he slammed the door of the cab shut.

He walked steadily on the side of the road, shortening the distance between him and the broken down car. He put the collar of his coat up, adjusted his scarf and then he spoke.

"Trouble with the car?"

Molly closed her eyes for a second when she heard the question. Certainly, it couldn't be him.

She had seen the cab passing by and she considered running after it, but realised straight away that there was no use, as it was driving too fast, so she didn't even bother to turn around. She knew there was nothing she could do and her car wouldn't come back to life by simply looking at it, but what options did she have? She felt less useless if she was at least pretending to come up with a solution.

Now the voice was coming from behind her, and it sounded awfully like Sherlock's. It couldn't be, though. Sherlock was back in London, where he couldn't affect her and mistreat her. She turned around.

Sherlock was staring at her, tall, imposing. There was a small smirk dancing in his mouth and Molly pursed her lips instinctively.

"What are you doing here?"

There was no sympathy in her voice. Sherlock removed his hands from his pockets.

"I'm on a case. A coincidence we should meet up like this."

"Cut the bullshit, Sherlock."

Sherlock was taken aback by the unexpected words. Especially because he had never heard them from Molly before; not so harsh and dry.

"Did you follow me here?" she asked, looking around. "How long have you been following me?"

"I haven't followed you," Sherlock rebated, knowing that it was only partly true. "I am, in fact, on a case."

"I don't believe you," Molly said. "Who told you I came here? I willingly told no one where I was staying, unbelievable…"

"Molly, you are not listening," Sherlock said, "I am on a case. A client came by my flat two days ago with a new case for me and he happens to live here."

For a moment, seeing he meant what he was saying, Molly felt silly. She was giving herself too much importance, perhaps. Why would he come after her, anyway? One thing was she wanting to get away from him; another very different thing was Sherlock giving her the same importance she gave him. She was being unfair, but seeing him there, when she had left London to avoid exactly this, seemed to be too much the world working against her. She nodded.

"I have no idea what happened," she said, pointing now at the car, "It ran just fine all the way from London till here and it was working well this morning. Then I went to have lunch, and I was trying to get back, and it simply stopped running."

Even as she explained to him what had happened, she was still trying to take in the sight of Sherlock. How on Earth could she be so unlucky to have Sherlock run into her, even there? From all the clients he had contacting him in search for help, why someone from Sussex? Why had his cab taken that road there too, exactly where her car had broken down? She shook her head, fuming, trying to focus on one problem at a time. First the car, then Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at Molly for a second and then he passed her and sat behind the wheel. The car key was still in the ignition and he turned it. No signal. He got out of the car again, making sure that the cab was still waiting for him. Molly wasn't even looking at him now; she was staring at the engine again, arms folded against her chest, as she usually did when she was upset but didn't want to say anything about it.

"I think I might be able to fix it."

Molly scoffed.

"You did nothing but sit behind the wheel."

Sherlock ignored her sharp words and her obvious discomfort around him now. She really didn't want him there and Sherlock started to wonder why he had decided to rush off to Sussex to find her. What was he thinking? After what Molly's work partner had said, it was pretty obvious that Molly complained about him frequently, and her friend's reaction when he had walked by her flat in search for her should have made it clearer for Sherlock that he would not be welcomed. He realised that Mycroft was probably right, as usual. Maybe Molly hadn't simply run away from her work. Maybe she had in fact run away from him.

He removed his coat and placed it on the driver's sit, and then he undid the buttons of his shirt's sleeves and pulled them up to his elbow. He looked at the engine, trying to bring back the mental image of others he had seen before. It didn't take long for him to recognise the fault, just what he had suspected, and to his relief he realised he would be indeed able to fix it and get the car running again.

Molly was now staring at him with suspicion and she saw him searching for something. Sherlock made sure that the engine was not too hot and then he dived in with his right hand, feeling around the metal casings and pipes. When he lifted his right hand back up it was dirty and there was something inside it. He opened it up and a metallic piece was resting on his palm.

"This was not well attached. It unscrewed."

Molly opened her mouth slightly, in awe, and in doubt. Sherlock screwed the piece back in.

"Try it out," he incited.

Molly bit her lip and then she opened the door on the driver's side, throwing Sherlock's coat sloppily to the back seat. Sherlock pretended not to see that. Molly turned the key, waited a moment, and then she started the engine. It roared softly to life. Sherlock closed the bonnet and looked at her through the windshield with a smug expression. Molly turned the engine off and then on again, checking that it was working and then she cut it off again, getting out of the car. She looked at her feet.

"Thank you," she said. She smiled, "I didn't know you could fix cars. Impressive."

Sherlock smiled, and taken away by Molly's words and the apparent return of her good mood, he replied, "You should have seen me breaking into your flat."

He realised his words as soon as he pronounced them, wondering why on earth he had said them. Molly's smile faded.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, I said nothing. I said that fixing cars is not as impressive as breaking into flats, which I have had the need to do before, for cases."

Molly could be a lot of things, but she was not stupid.

"You broke into my flat?"

"No, I didn't!" Sherlock denied, hands opened in front of him now. "I didn't break into your flat, I could if I wanted, I mean if you ever needed me to, in case you lost your keys, or-"

"So that's how you found me!" she accused, not knowing if she should feel more appalled by his nerve, or strangely amused by how easy it had been to make him feel just appreciated enough to have him confessing something he so obviously had no intention to.

"How could I have found you by simply breaking into your flat?" Sherlock contested, trying to say something that would make her believe him, "There's no clue there!"

He went pale again as Molly took in the words, assuming an expression that ranged from disbelief to raw fury.

"You! I knew it! One month! I leave London for one bloody month to get away from you, and you come after me? And break into my flat? Who the hell do you think you are, what do you think gives you the right?"

She was dangerously close to punch him in the face and Sherlock backed off a few steps, "Molly, wait, it's not what you think. Let me explain. I have a case in London, Lestrade is relying on me and I need a few body parts to test my theory and provide him with the proof he needs so that when the case goes to court…"

"I don't care!" as Sherlock took a few steps back, Molly paced forward. "You think your damn cases give you the right to invade someone else's privacy? If I left London was because I didn't want to be bothered by anyone, including you! But no, of course Sherlock Holmes is above all things!"

She was so angry that the words she was going to say next got stuck in her throat. When she spoke again, she didn't shout, and she looked him straight in the eye.

"I don't want to see you ever again."

Sherlock's expression suddenly resembled that of a child; fearful, pleading, apologetic. Molly saw it all, but she closed her eyes in frustration and turned her back on him. She opened the back door of her car and picked up his coat, threw it at him with more force than necessary, and then sat behind the wheel. Sherlock approached her side of the car, but she had locked it from inside and put it to run. She didn't look at him twice; she hit the gas and drove without looking back.

Sherlock clenched his jaw but before he had time to worry about what had just happened with Molly he saw with horror his cab driving away, his suitcase abandoned on the side of the road.

Terrific.

* * *

><p><strong>I won't be able to update this fic before next week, I have visits coming over and I am trying to be a good host. I'll make up for the delay.<strong>


	8. We Meet Again

Chapter Eight

We Meet Again

* * *

><p>Molly drove away faster than she should, jaw clenched, knuckles white from holding the wheel so tight. She stopped only when she was sure Sherlock could not follow her and parked the car on the side of the deserted road. She wanted to calm down before going back to the city centre.<p>

She took off her seatbelt and hid her face in her hands, sighing. All she wanted were a few days off, a few days way from everything and everyone, a few days without having to hate herself because she was unable to control the hold Sherlock had on her. Just some time alone to set her mind straight and find some self-love. But no, he had to follow her there. Molly knew the damage Sherlock made wasn't entirely his fault; he had never tried to make Molly fall in love with him, but he surely had used the fact that she was infatuated with him in his favour often enough.

Molly shook her head. How dare he break into her flat, pass the limits she had imposed, act as if that was a normal thing to do? Follow her there because he had a case to solve, not even because he missed her? Molly shook her head again, hating herself.

"Stop it!" she ordered herself.

She was so tired of all this. She sat straight up again and looked ahead. It was over now. She had dealt with him, and he better stay away now, leave her be and go back to London. She still had things to do today and it was getting late. She turned the engine of the car on again, put on the indicator and got back into the road.

* * *

><p>Sherlock looked at his dirty hands, realising he had nothing to clean them with. He didn't want to ruin his jacket, so he removed his scarf and scrubbed his fingers with it. He did like that scarf, but he accepted the fact that he would have to do without it for the time being. He then rolled the sleeves of his shirt down and put on his coat. It was not a pleasant day, in spite of the dry weather. He picked up his own suitcase from the floor and inspected it, making sure it was not damaged. He would have to call another cab, and he focused, trying to remember the number. It came to him easily enough and he put his hand in his right pocket to fetch his phone, but it was empty. He frowned. He was sure he had put his phone there. It was there as he left the house and when he left the cab to assist Molly, he had made sure of that. He searched all his pockets, but there was no sign of it. Just to make sure he didn't discard any option, he checked in his suitcase as well, although he knew already he wouldn't find it there. Then he thought about the sloppy way Molly had thrown his coat to the back of her car and he understood what must have happened. The phone had most likely fallen to the back seat of her<em> Fiat<em>. Sherlock sighed. He was alone in a road with little to no traffic and without a phone, and he doubted Molly would see his phone before getting home. And even then, she would not know where to call to reach him directly. He picked up his suitcase again and started to walk. He was not sure in which direction his hotel was, but he followed the path Molly and the cab had disappeared to, because staying there waiting was not an option. He needed to reach some place where he could call his own phone and hope Molly would pick it up.

* * *

><p>Molly parked the car outside the supermarket and focused on what she was doing now. She needed to get the rest of her groceries; she would have plenty of opportunities to be angry with Sherlock later on. Or maybe she could just leave it for the time being. Sherlock would have to apologise for his behaviour once she was back in London, but for the now it was time to let him wander off of her mind again. She was doing so well; two days in which she had been so distracted with the cottage and what needed to be done to it, that she hadn't even thought about Sherlock. She hadn't missed him, or been struck again with her feelings for him. Molly grunted. Enough.<p>

The supermarket wasn't big but Molly was able to find all that was missing from her list. When she finished filling up the cart there was food enough to last for at least two weeks. She took a last round across the aisles just to be sure she wasn't forgetting anything. The centre of town wasn't extremely far from her cottage, but it wasn't exactly across the road, so she wanted to be sure nothing was amiss. She stopped in front of a shelf filled with different types of wine. She read a few labels carefully and then picked one that looked good. She smiled. A bottle of wine, a book, and Toby as company seemed like the perfect way to forget her unfortunate and unexpected encounter with Sherlock. She nodded and smiled to herself, and then she made a mental note to stop by the gas station on her way back, for some information. She needed to know where she could buy some wood. The fireplace in the living room was too beautiful not to be used.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was lost.<p>

He didn't like to admit it to himself, his mind telling him he was simply not in the right direction yet, but he would find the way to… well, right now, the way to _anywhere_ at all would be more than welcome. After walking for what seemed hours he had gotten nowhere near a residential area. All he could see were roads and fields. Three cars had passed him by, just to drive faster as he raised his thumb, hoping anyone could give him a lift. After a while he realised he had reached his starting point and he didn't even understand how. As far as he could tell, he was not walking in circles. He had tried different shortcuts, he had walked across fields, so he shouldn't be here in the first place.

But he was. This would have never happened in London. He knew his beloved city like the back of his hand. Sussex, in turn, presented itself like a labyrinth. He had tried to walk straight but there were places where he had to turn, and even though it seemed like he had tried all the alternatives, the reality was that he was back at the starting point.

He could not conceive how it was possible that he had seen no houses at all in his search for a more travelled road. For miles and miles. He sighed in frustration and stared at his dirty hands. He didn't want to be worried about this, but the sun was lower and lower in the sky, and in October it was usually completely set by 18h30. He looked at his clock that read 16h00, and then he pulled the sleeve of his coat down again. He was tired.

The noise of a car coming in the distance made him jump. This might well be his last hope of getting a ride; he pulled the collar of his coat down and crossed the road, taking his suitcase with him.

* * *

><p>Molly adjusted her seatbelt, regretting having removed her coat. It was getting cold, now that the sun was getting low, and her car had no heating. She smiled, glancing at the passenger seat. The car was completely full. She had bought so many things that it was a miracle it had all fit, things crammed on the floor and over the seats. It felt like moving out, like starting over.<p>

She lowered her speed instinctively, seeing a lonely figure in the distance, standing by the side of the road, carrying a suitcase. She closed her eyes for a second. This was where her car had broken down. And there still, carrying his suitcase, was Sherlock.


	9. Time For Apologies

Chapter Nine

Time For Apologies

Molly slowed down at the sight, pursing her lips. She was really not sure what to make of Sherlock's lone figure standing there still. Had he ditched his cab for some reason? Had he stood there for hours specifically waiting for her to drive by again? She brought the car to a halt, stopping before Sherlock. He didn't move towards her, even when she opened the door of the car and walked out. He waited until she spoke to him.

"Is everything okay?"

Molly's words didn't come harsh this time. She was genuinely curious and Sherlock took a step in her direction before speaking.

"You have my phone," he explained.

Molly frowned, putting on her coat. The sun that was still visible in the sky offered now no source of heat, and she shivered, "No, I don't," she rebutted.

Sherlock tried to show a sympathetic expression. He didn't want to infuriate her again and lose his only chance to get back to his hotel, so he explained, calmly, "I put my coat in your car when I was fixing it. I believe that when you threw it to the back seat my phone must have fallen from the coat's pocket."

"What happened to your cab? You could have asked him to take you to a phone booth so you could call your own phone."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "The cab left just after you did. Couldn't wait any longer, I suppose."

Molly nodded, taking Sherlock in, assimilating what he was telling her. Then, she opened the door of her car and she searched for his phone. She had to remove a few bags and items, but she finally found it, placed on top of the back seat. She picked it up and approached Sherlock again. She extended the phone to him. Sherlock took the phone, checked it out of habit and then retrieved it into his pocket.

"Thank you," he said.

Molly's eyes were set on his scarf, placed over his suitcase, "What happened?" she asked. And instinctively she picked the scarf up, measuring the oil stain.

"I didn't have anything at hand to clean my hands with," he explained, "It's okay, I'll get them to wash it at the hotel," he removed the scarf from Molly's hands and held tight to it, but Molly didn't let go of it.

"You got your hands dirty fixing my car. I'll wash it for you."

"Really, there's no need-"

"I'll wash it for you."

Sherlock knew that tone of voice and he knew there was no use in trying to argue, so he was the one loosening the grip on the scarf, "Thank you," he repeated it.

"I'll drop you where you need me to," she offered, and if Sherlock was surprised by this, he disguised it well, "The car is pretty full, though, so I am afraid it won't be a very comfortable trip."

"It's fine," Sherlock assured, "I just want to leave this bloody place."

Molly looked at him as she passed him by, opening the door on the passenger's seat, trying to find some room for a few things on the back of the car. Then it occurred to her, "Why didn't you try to find the main road?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, but then decided to tell the truth, "I did try to do it. I got lost. I wandered around for hours, couldn't find a bloody house in miles, ended up here again."

"You went around in circles?" she asked.

"It didn't feel like it, but I suppose I must have."

Molly turned her face away from him, smirking. Take Sherlock Holmes away from London and you'll find a man who loses his way.

"You can sit now," she informed, "But I will have to put a few things on top of you. It's really crammed. And give me your suitcase; I think I can still fit it against your legs, if you carry the things that are placed on the floor as well."

Sherlock did as told, and he sat down, putting the seatbelt. Molly put a few bags on top of him, and when she closed his door Sherlock seemed to be blending into the seat behind him. She sat behind the wheel and started the engine again. She passed Sherlock her GPS and he inserted the hotel's address. Then, she got on the road and started driving.

They drove silently for a while, Molly looking ahead and Sherlock looking out the window. He could hardly move with all those things placed on his lap, but Molly could see him wringing his hands together, something he did when he was nervous or uneasy.

"You had no right to break into my flat."

Sherlock should be expecting more than for that to be a finished argument.

"I know," he said.

Molly waited.

"I'm sorry," he added.

Molly nodded.

"I accept your apology, but you can't trespass my privacy ever again. Are we clear?"

Sherlock's hands were still closed tight together when he nodded, in way of promise, "Yes."

He waited for her to add something, but Moly seemed to have said all she had to say. She was angry with him still, Sherlock could tell. And she would forgive him eventually, but this was not her accepting what he had done. She would never accept what he had done.

"So," he started, "Are you coming-"

"I'm not returning to London with you," she took her eyes of the road for a second, "You have just apologised and I accepted your apology, don't ruin it."

Sherlock nodded, and stared outside again. He should have known better than to expect anything else from her after she had had the courage to leave him there on the road, all alone. Molly was different, he thought. She was learning to stand up for herself and in the worst time possible for him.

"Do you really have a case?"

Molly's question put a stop to any attempt Sherlock might have ensued to try and change her mind, and he knew when to accept defeat.

"Yes, I told you I had. I wasn't lying."

"How about John? Why didn't he come with you?"

"He has work at the surgery, so he couldn't."

Molly bit her lip, "Sort of a great coincidence that you happened to have a case in Sussex just as I decide to take on vacations here," she remarked.

Sherlock stared at her for a second and then he looked ahead. He could see the hotel in the distance; the images on the website didn't do it justice, he caught himself thinking.

"Those who do not believe in coincidences must lead a very dull life," he said, absentminded. This was one of his mottos, and Molly stared at him now, frowning.

The car came to a halt in front of the hotel's entrance and Molly parked it there, getting out of it to free Sherlock from all the things he was carrying. Then, she gave him his suitcase as well, and stopped in front of him, arms crossed.

"Thank you for leaving me here," he said.

Molly swallowed. Sherlock was gazing at her with intensity, and he seemed unsure of what to say and do next, as if she was now a different subject, someone he didn't know. She took one hand to the left side pocket of his coat and removed the scarf that he had folded neatly, concealing it from her.

"I told you I would wash it. And so I will."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her, accepting defeat. Then, Molly turned on her heels, gave him a last nod and left. Sherlock saw her disappearing and then he headed towards the hotel hall.

"It was worth the try," he reassured himself.

* * *

><p>It took Molly a few hours to put everything in place, but she found tidying up soothing. It kept her mind at bay, and it gave her a feeling of accomplishment. Now she had pretty much everything she needed, for her and for Toby, and plans for the next day.<p>

She made soup for dinner, and then she tried on the heating, to make sure it was working. She would have preferred the fireplace, but with no wood available yet, the heating would have to do.

The day had gone cold quickly, so she picked one of the blankets she had purchased and wrapped herself in it, while she waited for the kettle to boil. She inhaled the scent that came from the blanket, and her heart faltered inside her chest. It took her a few minutes to realise where she recognised it from, why it seemed so familiar. Then the memory of seeing Sherlock holding it amongst other things on the passenger's seat of her car made everything clear. It smelled of after-shave, and soap. It smelled of him.

She sat on the couch with her tea, looking outside the window. The sun had set already, and the leaves on the trees balanced with the impact of the wind. She remembered Sherlock's words, 'Those who do not believe in coincidences must lead a very dull life.'

She sure hoped coincidences started to work for her this time to keep Sherlock away from her.


	10. Meeting A Stranger

Chapter Ten

Meeting A Stranger

Moly woke up with a jerk, and she sat upright at once. Toby had been lying down by her feet, as usual, over the bed covers, and it got up, frightened with her motion, running out of the room. It took Molly a moment to take in the image of the room. She had forgotten to close the blinds the night before and the day outside greeted her grey and unpleasant.

She took her hands to her face, yawning. She had no idea what she had been dreaming about, or what made her wake up like this, but at least she wasn't sleepy anymore. She took care of her morning routine, fed Toby and then, dressed in comfy clothes, she picked up a few vases and seeds, the potting soil and tools she had bought in town, and her straw hat. It was cold outside, and there was a high chance of rain, but there was no power on earth that would stop her from using that hat. She sat on the porch, spreading her legs open and placing the small vases and tools between them. Toby rummaged around, meowing occasionally, demanding attention.

There was something soothing about dirty hands and humid soil, and Molly started humming even without realising. Then, she got up and turned on the radio, singing out loud, making sure she planted the flowers' seeds right.

She heard a noise coming from the side of the forest and she raised her head. Someone was riding a bicycle on the other side of the stream, across the macadam road. A tall man, possibly a bit older than her, and Molly's eyes caught his. The stranger stopped his bike, turned around and crossed the small bridge. Molly picked up her tools.

"Hey, there!" the man shouted, and he smiled. He was wearing some worn out jeans and sweater.

Molly got up, still holding a hand trowel firmly in her right hand. The man stopped at some distance, getting out of his bike.

"Sorry about the intrusion," he apologised, "I live a few miles away from here. I used to know the former owner of this house."

Molly nodded but didn't say a thing.

"I didn't know it had a new owner," he carried on, "It was a bloody shame Mrs. Dane passed away. My father and I were very sad to hear it. She was a nice old lady."

Molly was surprised when she recognised her aunt's name, and she let her guard down a bit.

"Oh, you knew my aunt?"

The man smiled at Molly's interaction, seemingly pleased that she was finally speaking to him, "Oh, Mrs. Dane was your aunt? Yes, I knew her; she used to buy fruit, eggs and vegetables off us, and wood off my uncle. She used to come here to spend the weekend all by herself quite often."

He was speaking loudly to make himself be heard, so Molly approached him. Toby followed her, swaying its tail slowly.

"I inherited the house," she explained. She had no idea why she was making conversation with a complete stranger, but she missed having someone other than Toby to talk to, "When she passed away. I'm here on vacations now."

"I hope you enjoy this part of town. It's quite country-like around here," then he inquired still, "Where do you come from, then?"

He had a nice accent, and Molly couldn't help but notice his calloused hands.

"London. I'm a pathologist," she added. At his inquisitive look she explained, "I pretty much cut people open and sew them back together, and other things."

It was too late that she realised what she was saying, and how her morbid humour might not go so well on this young man as it usually went with her work colleagues.

"I mean, I work at a hospital's morgue. I perform autopsies, amongst other things."

"Oh," he said, smiling a little again. Then he started laughing, and that took Molly by surprise, "I just thought you were going to murder me with that hand trowel and you were just confessing your crimes before taking care of me for good."

Molly looked at him, then at the trowel in her hand and she laughed too, a bit more at ease.

"I'm Nicholas," he said, extending a hand towards her, "Nick."

Molly moved the trowel to her left hand and shook his, "Nice to meet you."

Nicholas nodded, and then he got on his bike again, "Anyway, if you need anything, just walk down the stream and the first farm you'll see is mine, then the second farm you'll see is my uncle's. My father and my uncle had a bit of a fight a few months ago, so it's probably for the best if you don't mention one to the other."

Molly could not picture a time when she would possibly need to speak to any, talk about mentioning one to the other, but then something Nicholas had said struck her.

"Wait a moment," she asked, "You said your uncle sells wood?"

The man nodded in agreement, "Yeah, he does. He is in charge of making deals here every autumn. There's a sort of auction to buy wood and you can get good prices. Actually, if you are interested, there's going to be an auction this weekend, by my uncles' house. Lots of people are expected to come by, so if you are good at bargaining and you have a bit of money to spend, it may be worth going by the place."

Molly considered the offer, "I will come around, then. I need to buy wood for the fireplace."

"I suppose I'll see you there, then. I am usually working in the fields right across on Saturdays."

"Sure," she said.

He stared at her and Molly understood what he was waiting for.

"Oh, my name is Molly."

He smiled.

"See you Saturday then, Molly."

He raised a hand in lieu of goodbye, crossed the bridge again and continued in his path. Molly smiled. He seemed nice. She went back to her vases; the radio was playing The Beatles and she cranked it louder.

* * *

><p>Molly wanted to explore the place behind the cottage, so she decided to go for a walk in the afternoon. She locked Toby in the house and then put her keys in her bag, buttoned her coat and started walking down stream, after crossing the bridge. Nicholas had told her that she would find his and his uncle's farms easily if she went in that direction, and she wanted to know more details about the wood auction. Now she regretted having scared Nicholas out of her way, with her defensiveness and gardening tools, but leaving in London had taught her that you can never be too careful. Except that in London there were people everywhere and here she was all alone in the cottage, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by forest. A cold breeze kept her hair out of her face, and she followed the road.<p>

There were fallen leaves everywhere and Molly lost track of time, stepping on some of them and hearing the pleasing sound they made under the soles of her boots. She was walking leisurely when she saw the shape of two farms in the distance. They were separated only by a fence, but as she approached them she realised it was possible to contour one to access the other. Both farms showed signs of the work that was done there. All very rural. There were chickens and other birds in the first house, which from what she remembered, was Nicholas'.

The front entrance to each of the farms was on the opposite side, and Molly was wondering if she would find anyone at the back of the house, or if she would have to go around to ring the doorbell, when something caught her eye.

A tall, exquisite man was standing there, hands behind his back and his curly hair quivering with the wind. He was talking to another shorter man and looking around, as the man – dressed in working clothes and wearing a flat cap - seemed to be explaining something to him. He caught sight of Molly quite immediately and as Molly hesitated for a moment, taking this in and deciding if she should approach them or not, she could swear that behind the look of surprise in his face, there was also a wicked grin dancing on Sherlock's lips.


	11. Happenstance, Coincidence, Enemy Action

Chapter Eleven

Happenstance, Coincidence, Enemy Action

* * *

><p>Goldfinger (1959)<p>

"Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it's enemy action.

Auric Goldfinger"

* * *

><p>Sherlock straightened himself up, looking at Molly's figure standing in the distance.<p>

Mr. Abney was talking to him, explaining in detail the grounds that surrounded his farm, the way he went around with doing his job, and his daily routine. He realised that Sherlock was no longer paying attention, so he followed Sherlock's gaze to the back of the field.

Molly was standing there, hands placed on the small gate, wondering if she should come in, but deciding to wait for the short man next to Sherlock to come and meet her there. She assumed, by his clothes and general posture, that he was the farm's owner. A dog came to greet her first, trotting in front of the man, who was now walking in her direction with Sherlock by his side.

"Come on in," the man said. He was smiling at her, as if strangers showed up at his door every day, "The dog won't bite unless I tell it to, and I won't tell it to," he joked.

He held the gate for Molly and she walked in, gazing at Sherlock, who was now trying to disguise the smug smile battling to make itself shown. Molly was sure he had not predicted or in any way arranged for her to be here, but she also figured he was still pleased to see her, just because she had made very clear that that was the last thing she wanted right now. He nodded, in way of greeting and Molly adjusted the strap of her bag, focusing her attention back on the other man.

"Molly," Sherlock said, before Molly could continue, "This is Mr. Abney."

The man looked from one to the other, "Oh, you know each other? Is she your girlfriend, then?"

"No," both Molly and Sherlock answered, in unison, and then Molly proceeded, "I spoke to your nephew this morning; he said you sell wood and that there is going to be an auction this Saturday, and I am interested in that. I'm the new owner of Mrs. Dane's cottage. She is my aunt," Molly explained, "Well, was. She's dead now."

Mr. Abney took in Molly's words just as Molly realised how they might have sounded, but before she could correct herself the man looked at Sherlock for a second, "You're all very practical with words in London, aren't you?"

Molly bushed, "Sorry, I barely knew her," she explained. It was easy to offer that as way of excuse than explaining how she always had the tendency to phrase everything wrong.

Mr. Abney smiled, "Ah, it's okay. It's sort of refreshing, in a way," he confided, "Sometimes I wish we could be more open hearted about certain people. Not your aunt, though; I liked her."

Molly smiled, "I do have a good feeling about her, though I don't remember much. The last time I saw her I was still a child, you see."

Mr. Abney nodded, "So, you met Nick this morning?" he didn't wait for Molly's answer, "Now that's a good lad, he is. He tried to help me with my sheep, unlike his father..."

The man seemed to trail off, realising that that was no one else's business, and Molly remembered Nicholas' recommendation, so she cut in, "So, I was wondering if you could provide me with some details about the auction? What time does it start, what should I be expecting?"

"Yes, of course, I-"

"Excuse me, Mr. Abney," Sherlock interrupted. He was not looking at him, though, his stare was fixed on Molly, and then he looked around, "While you explain to her the details of the auction, I'd rather like to go and inspect the field."

Mr. Abney seemed a bit divided for a second, and with an apologetic look towards Molly he answered Sherlock's request, "Yes, of course. Hum, that's where I keep the sheep," he pointed out the big field in front of them, surrounded by a fence, where the sheep were grazing, scattered here and there.

Sherlock nodded, took a last look at Molly and then walked in the direction Mr. Abney had pointed.

Molly observed him going but then Mr. Abney's voice brought him back to her attention. He explained Molly all the details about the auction, answered her questions and then chimed in with a few advices for a first-time bidder. He helped holding the auction at the farm because he knew some people, and he got a commission for it, but the final price was to be decided by the man who actually provided the wood, so she should feel free to haggle. Molly laughed at his ways and listened intently. Apparently, quite a few people were attending, and the man even advised her about how much wood she would need to buy, based on her aunt's former purchases.

Sherlock, who had returned without her noticing it, chimed in, "She won't need as much wood as her aunt's, though; she isn't planning on coming here as often, I imagine."

Molly was startled by his voice, coming right from her side, and she looked at him, mouth agape, "I might," she refuted.

Mr. Abney was staring at them again, trying to gauge what was happening right in front of him. Then, he spoke again, changing the subject, "Your aunt used to keep the wood next to the tools shed. There's a small place outside, it was already prepared for it."

"Can't I keep it in the shed?" Molly inquired.

"Ah, you shouldn't keep the wood in a closed place, because of termites and so on," he explained.

"Oh, so that's what the small covered bit aggregated to the shed is for," Molly concluded, remembering that she had wondered why the tools shed had some sort of secondary lower roof on its side, if it was still an open space.

"Exactly," Mrs. Abney said, "Nick can help you with that," he decided, "I'll ask him."

"Oh, thank you," Molly said, "But only if I can't take care of it myself. I don't want to take advantage of your kindness."

"Oh, I'm sure he won't mind," Mr. Abney dismissed.

"Mr. Abney, when did the first sheep disappear?" Sherlock asked, taking advantage of the break in their conversation.

Once again, Mr. Abney seemed to be torn between continuing to pay full attention to Molly or focus on Sherlock now. Molly didn't seem to object to the interruption, so he answered, "About two months ago."

"Do you know the specific date?"

"Yes, I have actually a small notebook that I kept for the police an-"

"Good, I'd like to see that later on," and he proceeded, pointing at the dog, a beautiful Estrela Mountain, with short dark brown hair, "When you came to my flat in London you told me your dog only trusts your son, but now you speak about a nephew, who I suppose is close to you as well, and about your brother, with whom you had an argument about the disappearance of the sheep, and don't talk to anymore. Am I correct?"

The man nodded, "Yes. He accused me of wanting to make a move over the insurance!" For a moment he seemed exasperated, but when he spoke it was with the same tone as before, "I would never do anything like that. Not to mention that with the sheep completely gone I can't reclaim the insurance."

Sherlock dismissed this information and proceeded, "So, there are three people your dog trusts."

"Yes, but I don't believe any of them would do any harm to my sheep, or steal them."

"Your brother had accused you of trying to con the insurance, and yet you don't believe he might have taken your sheep?"

Mr. Abney seemed distressed, but not for the reason Sherlock was expecting, "We always had our fights. But I assure you he would never do anything of the sort. I'll give anyone my word for him. We have our differences, and he can be stubborn as a mule, but he is no thief. We are brothers," and as if guessing Sherlock's following question he added, "Nick is my right hand. He helps his father, he helps me, he's a good boy. He wouldn't do that."

Sherlock didn't seem very convinced, but he knew Mr. Abney wouldn't change his mind about this matter, so he gave it a rest. He would make his own investigations in time.

Molly had stood there for the duration of Sherlock's questioning, but now that she had the information she needed there was no reason to remain. It was always fascinating to see Sherlock dismantling a case, to observe how he tackled it, but on the other hand she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of her audience.

"I should probably go," she said.

Sherlock's gaze fell upon her, almost offended.

"Oh, of course! I'm sorry, I almost forgot about you, dear," Mr. Abney said.

"Or you could stay," Sherlock suggested.

Molly stared at him, puzzled for a moment. She could stay. But she wouldn't.

"No," she offered with a short smile, "I have a few things to take care of myself."

It was a lie and Sherlock could read it in the way she averted his stare for a second, just to look at him again.

"Thank you for all your help, Mr. Abney," she said, and extended a hand that Mr. Abney shook with warmth, "Bye," she gestured to Sherlock, grabbing the strap of her bag again, and turning around.

She had just closed the gate behind her, after patting Mr. Abney's dog that had followed her there, when Sherlock's voice resounded at her back, calling her name.

Molly closed her eyes for a second, and then turned to face him.

Sherlock was pacing towards her, and he stood on the inside of the gate.

"I can help you with the wood auction, if you want."

Molly frowned. She was not expecting that.

"Why would I need your help on a wood auction? Are you an expert on wood now as well?"

She was mocking him, and Sherlock bit his lower lip, looking at his own feet. Molly felt guilty for her words, but she did not take them back.

"I'm a people's expert. Well, at reading them, at least."

He could read right now that all Molly wanted was to keep him away. And he should probably do what she was asking, but somehow Molly dismissal bothered him. She was the only person besides John who always seemed genuinely pleased to see him, and now even that had changed. He had apologised, but that hadn't been enough. He crafted his next words carefully.

"You're looking for the best price. I am sure I can get you the best price."

"You will be rude," Molly said.

Sherlock moved his head to the side, in a gesture that showed she wasn't entirely wrong, "I'll still get you the right price."

Molly laughed at his admission. It was genuine, and she looked to the side, still laughing at his nerve. Then, she gazed back at him. He seemed expectant, waiting for her answer.

"Take this as an offer to make up for the troubles I've caused you, if you prefer. For everything," he added, hoping this would suffice to change her mind.

Molly was gauging how sincere all this was, coming from him. 'Say no,' she demanded of herself, 'Say no.'

"Alright," she answered instead, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, "I'll take your offer."

Sherlock nodded.

"I'll see you Saturday, then," he said, in way of goodbye, before she could change her mind.

Molly adjusted her coat and crooked her head to the side, thinking.

"We keep bumping into each other," she complained.

Sherlock frowned, taking in her words.

"Perhaps we should stop fighting it, then," he advised.

He smiled at her, reaching out of habit for the scarf that wasn't around his neck any longer, and Molly smiled too, half-heartedly.

Perhaps.


	12. The Wood Auction

**Note:**

_I know that wood auctions are a real thing, as a friend of mine once attended one. I do not know specifics, though, and my friend wasn't able to provide much information. I did some research online, without conclusive results. So, if there is any wood expert out there, and if my price and wood quantity for the cold seasons estimation is incorrect, I do apologise._

* * *

><p>Chapter Twelve<p>

The Wood Auction

Saturday rose as grey and cold as the previous days, and Molly left home all wrapped up. It was almost auction time, but the less than two miles distance to get to Mr. Abney's property shouldn't take more than half an hour. The walk would certainly warm her up, and the way was pleasant, the fallen leaves like a carpet underneath her feet. The whole forest looked beautiful, all covered in warm colours, and the sound of the stream in the silence was soothing. She was lost in thought, without actually focusing on it, but observing the place around her.

When she reached Mr. Abney's farm, feeling a bit better, and with rosy cheeks from the walk, there were quite a few people there already, all talking with each other. She looked around, crossed the open gate, and spotted Sherlock straight away. Unlike everyone else, he was standing aside, hands behind his back, observing the people in front of him. Molly could not guess by his posture if this had been a deliberate choice or if he had been rude to people to the point of being left to himself now, but she concluded that maybe she was being too hard on him. Sherlock was not one to blend, so most likely that had been his choice. He seemed to brighten up when he saw her across the field, and he paced in her direction, meeting her half way. Molly smiled.

"Good morning," she said, and then gestured with her head in the direction of the mass of people, "I wasn't expecting such a great affluence," she admitted.

Sherlock's smile was brief, "They all know each other already; I was able to figure that out by their conversation. Most of them have met during other auctions."

Molly nodded. Then, she retrieved something from her purse, a piece of blue, folded fabric, "Here," she said, extending it to Sherlock, "It has finally dried. I had to hand-wash it, and the weather has been so cold… It took a bit longer to dry than usual."

The look of satisfaction on Sherlock's face was priceless. It was like he was meeting an old friend. He unfolded it and then knotted it around his pale neck. It smelled of Molly.

"Thank you," he said.

Molly shook her head, and averted his eyes. She always felt vulnerable when Sherlock's gaze met hers, always felt exposed. He seemed more himself now, the scarf secure resting over his chest.

Less than half an hour later – with a few more interested people joining in after Molly had arrived – Mr. Abney was standing next to a much larger man, and the auction began. The wood was sold by volume, different quantities tied together in big bundles, and the prices started to be bargained straight away.

Molly, Sherlock noticed, had her eyes in one of the smallest piles, which should be enough to get her through the cold season, even if she visited the cottage as often as every week. This was quickly estimated by Sherlock, not by Molly. Her perspective and choice had been a lucky hunch.

"I am sure that's plenty for your needs," Sherlock said, and Molly turned her attention to him, realising he had read her thoughts by observing her.

"How much do you think we should offer?"

Sherlock was listening to the keenest customers, the ones that haggled most vehemently and seemed to know which prices should be charged for the wood, what was the lowest price the seller could provide. Of course, the prices always rose, because there were people willing to pay more to get their way.

Sherlock didn't answer Molly straight away; the wood was being sold pile by pile – from the biggest bundle to the smallest, and he waited until the large man – the actual wood seller – reached the pile they intended to buy. Some people had already left by then, carrying their purchase in carts, more or less satisfied, although some still remained, willing to try their luck at yet another bundle.

Their turn arrived, and Sherlock waited. He didn't want to seem eager, and he was waiting for the reaction of others interested in it. Prices started to be heard, and Molly seemed to stand closer to Sherlock, wondering when he would begin, glad now that he had decided to help. She didn't like haggling; most of the time she would rather pay an unfair price than go through the trouble of asking for a discount.

"How much money are you willing to pay for that?" he finally asked her, and he looked at her.

Molly had heard other people's offers, so she made hers, "About £300?"

Sherlock nodded and waited. He waited until someone made a bigger offer than the one Molly was hoping to have to pay. Then, he took a small step forward and he spoke, "£300 for that bundle."

The large man that was directing the auction frowned and looked at Sherlock, "He has just offered £350."

"Yes, and I would like you to lower the price. I am offering £300."

The man chuckled, "Why would I sell you the wood for £300 if I have someone willing to pay £350?"

"Because £300 is more than what that's worth. A lot more."

There was a pointedly look on Sherlock's face that made the man feel uncomfortable. Molly and everyone else now was staring at them, unable to decipher the silence between the two. The wood seller swallowed and then nodded, reluctantly, "Sold, for £300."

Everyone reacted differently to this sudden turn of events and Sherlock stepped back, a smirk on his lips. Molly raised her eyebrows in a questioning manner, but Sherlock said nothing.

"Molly!"

The familiar voice called from afar, and Molly turned around. Nicholas was jumping the fence, dressed in a similar manner as when she had met him, and he walked in her direction. The auction was slowly returning to normal, the wood seller taking surreptitious looks at Sherlock.

"So, you did come!"

Nicholas seemed happy to see her there, even if they had only shared a few words on the day they had met. He stared at Sherlock and nodded. Molly assumed they had seen each other before.

"Yes," she answered, "I made my bid, and I got it."

"How much did you get?" Nicholas asked.

"£300 for that pile," she turned around, finger pointed at the bundle of wood that was on the right side of Mr. Abney.

"Such a good price?" Nicholas was surprised, "You're good at this!"

Molly laughed, "No, he is," she admitted, indicating Sherlock.

"Well, that was a fairly good price. Congrats."

Sherlock smiled faintly. He was again observing Nicholas and the latter felt uneasy, the same way he had felt when he had met him for the first time. The strange tall man seemed too cold and detached for his taste. He knew he was there to help his uncle, but he couldn't get a good vibe from him.

"Do you need me to transport the wood to the cottage?" Nicholas offered.

Molly realised she had never thought about the complications of carrying so much wood from the farm to her current residence, and she was more than thankful that Nicholas had offered to resolve her problem even before it had come to her attention, so she accepted the offer and thanked him warmly. Nicholas dismissed it with a quick gesture, "Don't even mention it," he insisted, "Just let the auction finish and then I'll bring the tractor. It's easier than way."

Molly nodded, and Nicholas stepped away, in the direction of his field, across from them. He had a sort of funny walk, as if he was skipping slightly at every step and Molly watched him go. Sherlock was quiet, observing still as the rest of the auction progressed.

"So, are you making any progress in your investigation?"

Sherlock stared at Molly, trying to figure out if she was mocking him or if she was genuinely interested. She seemed to be in a good mood today, so Sherlock decided to make conversation. Talking about his work was always a good way to put his thoughts in place.

"More or less," he admitted, "I have searched the fields around the farm, but found nothing of interest so far. Not to the investigation, anyway."

Molly realised she knew no details about the case, except that it was somehow connected with sheep, "What happened, anyway?"

Sherlock looked around, "Two months ago Mr. Abney's sheep started to disappear. There is never a trace of an attack by a wild animal, and no indication where the sheep disappear to. The fields where the sheep are usually grazing," he explained, pointing across from them, "are wide but have a fence all around them, which would allow a dog or so to jump, but not a sheep. During the night they are kept in a pen, over there," he indicated.

"Oh, they are not kept inside a barn or so?" Molly asked, interested.

"No, it's not necessary. Sheep can stand very low temperatures; Mr. Abney has a covered sheepcote, as you can see over there, which he only uses to keep the sheep in extremely bad weather, but that is also part of the pen, which is locked too. So the sheep have nowhere to escape. A fence around the field, which extends way out of our sight right now, and a pen where they are locked during the night. Not to mention that Rusty – that's the dog – is kept to guard the sheep night and day, and is always around. So he would sound the alarm if anything was to attack them, and in either case there would be traces of an attack. The local police have made searches around the area, even beyond the field that belongs to Mr. Abney, and they found nothing. No sheep anywhere. It's like they vanish in thin air. Mr. Abney has reported one sheep at first, then two, never more than that at a time. And there is no pattern in the disappearances."

Molly frowned. That was an odd case. It was rather fascinating to observe Sherlock talking about it, despite his methodical and exact approach.

Most of the people that had remained until the end of the auction were now scattering, finished business. The wood seller was arranging a few things with Mr. Abney and shooting glances at Sherlock once in a while. When all was arranged – with still a few bundles of wood to be picked up by their righteous owners – he approached Sherlock and Molly. He took a card from his wallet which he extended in Sherlock's direction, "If you ever need more wood, you can contact me directly."

Sherlock took the card with a smug attitude and watched as the man received the money from Molly, said his goodbyes to Mr. Abney, and disappeared of sight.

"Why did-"

"I'll explain later," Sherlock interrupted, before Molly could formulate a question.

Nicholas was riding a big tractor on the road across the fence and then he went around, emerging on the right side of the farm, where a big gate allowed the tractor's passage. He came down next to Moly's pile of wood holding a knife, and Molly walked towards him, Sherlock on her heels. Nicholas was cutting the thick rope that held the wood together and then he started to fill in the cart, attached to the back of the tractor, with the wood. Molly rushed to help him out.

"Oh, you can leave it," he urged, "You're going to scrape your hands with it."

"This should all be my job in the first place, you're already helping more than you should," she admitted.

Nicholas smiled, "Not at all."

Sherlock hunched down as well to help, and they filled the cart with the wood quickly, ready to be carried away.

"Hop on, then," Nicholas invited, and Molly and Sherlock looked at each other, as they realised he wanted them to ride on the tractor as well.

"No, I don't think so," Molly refused, "Seems a bit bumpy back there. We'll just walk."

Nicholas seemed amused, "Are you sure? It's a short ride."

"Positive," Molly insisted, "I'll walk and meet you there. You know where I live."

Nicholas laughed this time and nodded, "As you wish. But I must tell you I have a zero rate accident with this tractor."

"I believe you," Molly said.

"You only have this tractor for two weeks, though," Sherlock intervened, his low voice resounding over Molly's laughter now.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, "True. I hit a tree with the other one. Didn't dent it much though, these things are tough," and he winked at Molly, "So I was not lying. But since you refuse my offer, I'll see you there!"

He started the engine and Molly and Sherlock watched him drive away, through the same gate he had come in.

Molly was distracted for a while, amused, and Sherlock seemed a bit uneasy, as if he had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing there. It was rather endearing, Molly thought. Mr. Abney was taking care of putting a few things together a few yards above them and he raised his head, in acknowledgment, and Molly answered back in the same manner.

"Come along," she said, and started going in the other direction, ready to head home. Nicholas would have to wait a bit already; she didn't want to make him wait longer than necessary.

Sherlock frowned, "What do you mean?"

She stopped, looking behind, "You got me a better price than anyone could have expected, apparently. I'll cook us lunch," she smiled and turned around again.

A few seconds later Sherlock was pacing by her side, hands in his pockets, pleased with himself.


	13. Refusal

Chapter Thirteen

Refusal

When they arrived Nicholas was already there, working. Molly had no idea which road he had taken, but somehow he had managed to stop the tractor behind the tools shed, and he was already unloading the wood, but not storing it. It would have to be cut first and then stacked together. He stopped and cleaned his hands when he saw Molly and Sherlock walking towards him. They crossed the small bridge and met him by the tools shed.

"You have a nice place to store it," he commented, pointing at the rack attached to the left side of the shed, sheltered by a small roof, "It's well protected, even if it rains or snows, which is bound to happen early this year."

Molly had rushed to help him unload the remaining wood from the cart, but there wasn't much to do anymore. Nicholas clapped his hands together to get rid of the dirt and then he picked up some tools from the cart as well: an axe, some goggles and what seemed to Molly a tree stump, "It needs chopping before being stored," he explained.

Molly shook her head, hands in front of her.

"Oh, no. Absolutely not-"

"You can't store it like this," Nicholas cut in, frowning.

"No, I mean, I imagine that. But I won't have you chop the wood. You've done more than enough. I'll do it myself."

Nicholas chuckled, "No, don't even think about it," he contested, "This is heavy work."

"I can take care of it myself," she assured him.

There was something in Molly's tone that made Nicholas stop in his track, to face her.

"Really, it's not a problem. I can do it in a few hours. I have a few things to take care of right now in the field, but I'll come back later and I'll do it quickly."

Molly shook her head again, "No, seriously. I could use the exercise. I'm not as fragile as I look."

Nicholas recognised the determination, and a slight stubbornness. He could have insisted, but he didn't. He was sure that if Molly was unable to do it, Sherlock – that was now looking around, standing in the same place – would help her. And he would, in any case, make sure to bike by her house on the following day, to make sure she had managed it and didn't really need his help. But he had no time to argue about this now, and he didn't want to upset or doubt Molly. They barely knew each other.

"Alright, then," he said, defeated, "As you wish. But if you need my help for anything at all, don't hesitate to drop by the farm and call me."

"I won't," Molly said. "Hesitate, I mean," she explained.

Nicholas nodded and placed the axe and the goggles next to the chopping block, "I assume you'll need this. Please use the goggles; I have heard nasty stories about people who haven't used the necessary means to protect themselves. Do you need the gloves?" he still asked, "I can go and get you some smaller ones," his hands were far bigger than Molly's.

"No, I have my own, thank you. I bought a pair to work in the garden."

Nicholas left his nevertheless, for Sherlock, although he didn't say this to Molly. He didn't want her to think he was dismissing her capacities.

He left half an hour later, declining Molly's invitation to have lunch with them, but merely because he had some errands to run. Molly thanked him profusely, promising she would pass by the farm to return the axe, chopping block, and goggles as soon as she was finished with them. She watched him disappearing through a road on the left side of the forest, concealed with some trees, but wide enough to allow the passage of large vehicles, something she had never noticed before. She thought that maybe it was time to go to the centre of town again. She needed to explore the area better, and buying a bicycle seemed indispensable to do so. She would probably find a nice second-hand one in the flea market she had visited before.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock, "It's a nice place," he said.

Molly turned her attention to him, "Yes, it is. It has been kept in good shape too. I needed to buy a few things, but the house in itself was in prime condition," she paused for a second, "I hope you're hungry. I am."

She headed to the front of the house, and Sherlock followed her. She unlocked the front door and Toby came to greet them both, meowing sorrowfully.

"Yes, I know, I know," Molly consoled him, carrying him to the living room while Sherlock observed the house, taking note of every tiny detail, "I've been away all morning and you are tired of being locked in, right?"

The way she was talking to Toby amused Sherlock but he didn't comment on that, and unaware of it, Molly continued, "I can't leave you outside alone, because then you want to come in and you can't. I'll try to install that cat flap as soon as possible, okay?"

Toby, as if answering, meowed again, and Molly opened the door that led to the porch, letting him out. She closed it again, knowing Toby would most certainly scratch it whenever he needed to return inside.

Molly removed her coat and threw it to one of the chairs, "Do you want to take of your coat as well?"

Sherlock nodded and removed his coat, passing it to Molly. He then undid the knot on his scarf and placed it over a chair, "Do you want me to apply the cat flap on the door for you? Since you're going to cook lunch, I could do something useful as well. In return."

His words caught Molly by surprise, and it took her a moment to answer. Sherlock seemed a bit awkward standing there, and soon Molly understood why. He was not used to be a company to anyone outside Baker Street. It was not his house, not his own space, and he wasn't there for a case; he was there to have lunch, and keep Molly company, but none of it was his. When they were together at the lab it was different; Sherlock was always busy. Seeing things with the microscope, or handling human organs, he felt there as he felt at home. Here he had nothing to occupy his hands with, and he was trying to find something to do.

"I can do that myself, you don't have to-"

"I know that," the interruption was a bit brusque, and Molly was left there, mouth hanging slightly open. He apologised, "I mean, I know you are capable of doing it, I am not doubting that. I just would like to do it myself, if you don't mind."

Molly nodded shortly, "Can you do it?"

"I've seen cat flaps before; the mechanism is quite simple, as long as you have the necessary tools, it should be a no brainer."

Molly had bought all she needed in her excursion to the town centre and she gathered everything together. Sherlock would have to unhinge the door and she advised him to place it by the corner of the porch; the angle created by the wooden fence that surrounded it should offer a good working area. Sherlock heard carefully what she had to say, turned the sleeves of his shirt up and started to work. First, though, he picked up the gloves that Nicholas had left there, realising he had not forgotten them, but that it had all been a deliberate choice.

Molly couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock would be cold; he was wearing nothing but the shirt and the October's air was crisp and unpleasant. The wind was mild though, so she hoped working would warm him up.

She had no idea what Sherlock liked to eat. Thinking about it, she couldn't remember Sherlock eating in her presence ever, but she knew he had a strict rule about food when he was immersed in a case. She checked the fridge and cupboards, and decided to make some _tagliatelle alla bolognese_. It was one of her favourite dishes, and easy enough to make. She chopped the onion and other vegetables and she let them simmer in tomato sauce. Then, she added the ground meat and some condiments; in a different pan she immersed the pasta in milk and salt. She could hear the noise of the electric jigsaw as Sherlock worked outside.

Molly liked cooking; it always allowed her to relax, think about her day, and make new plans. She tasted the tomato sauce, added a bit more of salt and stirred it with a wooden spoon. Then she tasted the tagliatelle, and deciding it was cooked enough, she drained the water into the sink.

Sherlock was finishing attaching the screws of the cat flap on the door when Molly stuck her head through what was now just a hole in the wall of the cottage, where the door had been before. At the sound of her feet pacing on the wood, he looked behind.

"I'm almost finished," he informed. He was kneeling on the floor, leaning the door against the porch's fence at an angle, surrounded by the tools he had needed to use: from pencils to make marks, to tape, in order to avoid scratching the parts of the door that would not be hidden by the cat flap, everything was scattered around him. "Could you get me a wet cloth? There are some wood splinters and sawdust I need to remove."

Molly acquiesced and fetched what he had asked for. He cleaned the door carefully, and then he got up. He leaned the door against the wall, and pointed at it, showing it proudly to Molly. The cat flap was perfectly placed on it, and perfectly straight.

Molly smiled. Toby would not depend on her to walk in and out of the house now, and Sherlock had, surprisingly, made a fantastic work of that.

"Thank you," she said, "It's perfect. We can put it back in the hinges later. Lunch's ready."

Sherlock let go of the door, saw his reflection on the big window that encompassed almost the entire part of the wall on that side, and followed Molly into the house. She welcomed him into the kitchen and then closed the door behind them, "It's getting cold inside, because we have no porch door now," she said, in lieu of explanation.

Sherlock noticed the wonderful smell that emanated from the pans, and he washed his hands and arms on the sink. The table was set and he chose a chair. He could see straight away where Molly used to seat, so he sat opposite.

Molly was watching the butter melt on top of the pasta and then she brought the two pans to the table, one with the pasta, one with the ground meat. She offered Sherlock the cutlery so he could serve himself. Sherlock put a generous amount of food on his place and waited for Molly to start eating. For a few minutes they ate in silence. Molly was using a spoon to help her roll the pasta on the fork and she observed Sherlock attentively, who was now eating the meal eagerly.

"When was the last time you ate?" she asked, fork and spoon in her hands still. She remembered John talking about how he sometimes forgot to eat, but she had always found it hard to believe. Who forgets to eat?

Sherlock chewed carefully and swallowed his food before answering, his eyes moving up and to his left side, in thought, "Wednesday evening," he finally answered, attacking his food with more restraint now. His plate was almost empty.

"You didn't eat all day Thursday and yesterday?"

Sherlock nodded, "I was busy."

"You can't just go on for days without eating."

Sherlock shrugged and Molly, seeing his reticence in taking seconds, grabbed his plate and filled it up. She had made more than enough; not on purpose, but because when she made pasta it was always enough for a small army, it was something she was never good at measuring.

Sherlock thanked her, but he felt self-conscious now, "I didn't realise I was hungry. Digestion slows me down, but this is delicious."

Molly chuckled, "You can't just feed yourself physically with mental work," but she didn't add anything else. Sherlock was a grown up, he should know how to take care of himself. She went back to her food and ate in silence, until she saw with satisfaction as Sherlock scrapped his plate, the two pans completely empty.

Sherlock observed Molly while she ate, then cleaned her mouth with a paper napkin.

"I'm spending tomorrow's night at the pen," he informed and Molly looked up at him.

"Oh, really?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes; the sheep disappearances always happen during the night, so I figured that's my best shot at finding the culprit."

"Do you have any idea of what might have happened? How they are just vanishing?"

Sherlock nodded his head again, "A few, but they are quite bizarre ideas, and I have a feeling this is something more simple, though I must admit I don't know what yet. Well, obviously. I wouldn't be here still if I did know."

Molly emptied her plate too and then she got up; Sherlock helped her taking care of the dishes, a bit awkwardly. He finished drying the last one and Molly put it inside the cupboard. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, and she noticed that he was silently observing her again.

"Is there anything wrong?" she asked him.

Sherlock shook his head, "No," he paused, "I was wondering if you'd like to help me."

"Doing what?"

"Solving the case."

"No. I told you I am not returning to London before the end of my vacations-"

"No, I don't mean that case," Sherlock cut in, "I mean this case. Here."

Molly took in his words, "No, Sherlock. I'm not John."

"I don't need you to be John. I think better when I have someone to talk to, and it's always useful to have an external look on things."

"You mean, it is useful to have people looking at the problems from an ordinary point of view?" she was amused now, if anything.

"If you want to put it that way. John has unsuspectingly given me many vital clues to solve quite a fair share of crimes."

Molly knew what he was trying to do; flattery was his way of persuasion. And he tried it once again, "I could use some company, to keep me awake through the night I intend to stay at the sheep's pen."

"You want me to go with you to Mr. Abney's farm and stay there the whole night with you, whilst waiting for something to happen?"

"Yes," Sherlock affirmed, a hint of hope in his voice.

Molly folded the dishcloth Sherlock had been using to dry the dishes, and then she answered, "No," it was final, "I'm sorry. I am not sure I would do a very good job, either way. I would probably just keep distracting you."

Sherlock could have insisted. He didn't. He followed Molly outside the kitchen, the difference in temperature hitting him, and he dropped the subject. Since he was so accustomed to have John nearby whilst solving cases, it had become a bit difficult to go on and compartment his thoughts without anyone to debate them with. He talked out loud, but it was hardly the same.

Well, it had been worth the try.


	14. Like Salt On An Open Wound

Chapter Fourteen

Like Salt On An Open Wound

Molly moved her hand in Sherlock's direction, inciting him to cross the threshold so she could place the door on its hinges, but Sherlock removed the door from her grasp, "I'll finish this," he said.

Molly agreed and then she removed her cardigan. It was cold but she knew that in a minute she would be warm enough. She crossed the back garden, grabbed the axe Nicholas had left there, and put on the goggles and gloves. Sherlock was looking at her, trying to gauge if she needed help or could take care of it by herself. Molly got to work, delivering strong blows on the wood, cutting the tall tree trunks into smaller pieces. She hit it once, twice, three times before a new piece was detached from the rest, but she seemed to be making a good job in general. Her posture was not perfect, but Sherlock let her finish. He hinged the door carefully, making sure it was perfectly secure, and then checked the cat flap again. Toby was walking beside him, trying to wind around Sherlock's legs, meowing each time. Sherlock smiled, and picked it up. Toby was a mild cat and started to purr when Sherlock petted him, holding it against his chest. Its fur was slightly damp, but Sherlock didn't mind. Then, he let Toby go again, and went to the kitchen, to moisten the cloth Molly had given him once more, to clean the door and finish that work. Satisfied, he picked Toby, that continued pacing there, hoping for a bit more of attention, and he made him cross the cat flap a few times. It was working perfectly.

Molly was dexterous and in fact, as she had said herself, stronger than her figure had suggested. A big pile was already there, ready to be stored on the rack, when Sherlock left the porch to keep the tools Molly had provided back in the tools shed. Molly was sweating and grunted once in a while, to alleviate the effort of diving the axe into the wood, but didn't look exhausted, or incapable of carrying on.

Sherlock was quite impressed, although to be fair, the trunks she was chopping weren't extremely thick. He didn't ask if she needed help; he started to pick up the smaller pieces of wood and stored them in the wood rack.

"You don't have to do that," Molly said, stopping what she was doing, and removing her goggles for a minute, "I have time, I can do it later."

"It's not a problem," was all Sherlock said.

Molly shrugged and put on the goggles again. As he wished. And she continued.

They worked in silence for way over two hours, Molly chopping the wood, stopping to drink water, and going back to work again. She found it relaxing, as if each time she hit the piece of wood she could unload all of her frustrations, all of her stress. Beads of sweat were forming in her forehead and she sensed Sherlock pacing beside her, picking up the wood and setting it in its place.

Sherlock must have anticipated her intentions, because when Molly finished cutting all the tree trunks into pieces, there were still a few of those scattered on the floor. Those were meant to be stored inside, so she could use them straight away in the fireplace. But first, to fit in it, she needed to cut them in even smaller pieces.

Molly drained the water bottle, cleaning her forehead with the sleeve of her thin sweater, and then rolling it up again. Her hands were dirty and stiff, but the most difficult part was done.

"The wood is dry enough to be used," Sherlock said, speaking for the first time in hours.

Molly nodded, agreeing, "Good. Hopefully I'll be able to use the fireplace this evening."

She brought the pieces of wood Sherlock had reserved next to the chopping block and then tried to figure out the best way to cut the round piece of wood in her hand in half. That size should suffice. She balanced the wood on the stump and delivered the blow, right in the middle. Or, at least, that's where she aimed for, not where it hit. Somehow, she had managed to miss the firewood completely and burrowed the axe in the chopping block instead. She tried to remove it, but her arms were tired from all the work. She ended up releasing the axe from her hands, and it stood there, its handle facing her, perfectly settled into the chopping block. She laughed and then motioned the axe from one side to the other, trying again. This time the axe budged, and came off the block.

Sherlock was looking at her, amused.

"You aren't positioning yourself correctly," he explained, "May I?"

Molly passed him the axe willingly, and observed what he was doing.

Sherlock picked the firewood that was now fallen on the ground and settled it exactly as Molly had done before, on top of the chopping block. Then, he opened his legs slightly, to improve his balance. He slid his right hand near the head of the axe and slid the other hand to the middle of the handle, closer to the bottom. Then instead of going straight for the blow, he placed the axe's blade in the middle of the wood, where he meant to chop it. He brought the axe over his head, making sure he was still holding it steadily and then his hand dropped, carrying the axe into the wood, hitting the spot he intended to. The wood split in half, successfully.

Molly noticed that the hand next to the axe's head had slid down next to his other hand, and she nodded to Sherlock's quiet gaze, taking the axe he extended her.

"Do you think you can manage it?" he asked.

"Yeah."

She positioned herself, trying to mimic his movements.

"No, you have to open your legs shoulder width, otherwise as you move forward you'll lose balance. Like this," he used his foot to make her move her left foot to the side, in order to assume the right position.

Molly held her breath when he approached her, and simply placed his hand over hers, "Place this hand a bit closer to the axe's head, the other one is alright. Hold tight or it will slide from your hands as you deliver the blow."

He was no longer standing by her side, but almost completely behind her. His body was not touching hers, but he was trying to guide her movements, the axe hitting slightly the centre of the firewood he had placed on the chopping block. Molly knew that if she took the deep breath that was longing to escape her chest she would feel the fabric of Sherlock's shirt against her back. She swallowed and then Sherlock let go of her, waiting for Molly to conclude the movement. She raised the axe above her head, the same way she had seen Sherlock do before, and the axe hit the spot perfectly, the whole of the wood now torn apart in two.

Sherlock smiled, "Perfect," he said.

He was absolutely oblivious to the swirl that was going around Molly's head right now, and he began to pick up the scattered pieces of wood, putting them in a pile. Molly took a deep breath, carried another piece of wood to the chopping block and focused on what she was doing. Her heart was beating too fast for her taste, so she tried to calm herself down.

By the time she reached the end of the pile, her hands were faltering. Her palms were sweaty, but it was mostly her muscles that were starting to give her trouble. Not a surprise, when she stopped to think about the quantity of wood she had chopped in one afternoon. She was glad Sherlock had been there to help her stack it, because she was not sure she would have been able to do that on top of this.

She delivered the blow a bit more casually, and somehow it didn't split perfectly. A big splint of wood detached from it and hit Molly right in the forehead. She let the axe drop immediately, taking her dirty gloves to the place instinctively.

Sherlock was by her side immediately, and he held her carefully by her arms, turning her to him.

"Molly? Molly, look at me!"

She could feel a thick viscous liquid running down her forehead, and she was afraid to move her hand, but Sherlock's fingers locked softly around her glove and he removed it from her. Molly had her eyes closed still, and she felt as Sherlock took off her goggles and dropped them on the ground. His voice was softer than before, "The splint hit your forehead but bounced off. Doesn't look like a very profound cut. Come on, we need to go inside and take care of the wound," he demanded, and he waited until Molly was able to open her eyes.

He was staring at her, concerned, "Do you have a first aid kit inside?"

Molly nodded but doing that hurt, "Yes," she answered instead, her voice a whisper, "It's in the bathroom."

Sherlock guided her inside the house. He had removed her gloves, thrown them away onto the ground as well, and he walked after her, making sure he was still able to guide her. In the bathroom he washed his hands thoroughly, closed the lid of the toilet, and helped Molly sit down; then he opened the cabinets and rummaged through them, finding what he was looking for easily enough.

Molly was breathing regularly, assimilating what had just happened. How could she have been so stupid?

Sherlock carried the first aid kit with him and opened it, getting it ready. He picked up a towel from the rack with a swift movement and passed it to Molly, "I need to see the wound better. Hold this under your chin."

Molly did as instructed and then she felt Sherlock's fingers touching her left hand, to remove it again from her forehead. He ripped the lid of the saline solution open and poured it carefully over it. Molly had her eyes closed already and the liquid made her jump slightly. Then, he picked up a sterile gauze sponge, wetted it with the saline solution, and started to clean the blood and dirt from her forehead.

Molly flinched a bit and Sherlock loosened the pressure, and continued to clean it, making sure no sign of dirt remained on the wound.

"You won't be needing stitches," he finally said, realising that the wound was not as deep as the abundance of blood might have indicated.

Molly cleaned her face, and then opened her right eye.

"That's s relief," she sighed.

Sherlock was now smiling slightly, and his gaze locked with hers. Molly had never seen such a soft expression in his face before, and it made her heart swell up inside her chest. She looked down but Sherlock's hand reached for her chin and pulled her face up again. He threw away the first gauze and then imbibed another in the saline solution; he wanted to make sure the wound was completely clean before bandaging it.

"You'll have to make some pressure here, to stop it from bleeding."

Molly nodded and did as told. Sherlock was now preparing a bandage. He measured the size of the wound and picked the best bandage to fit there; then, he searched for some antibiotic ointment. He removed Molly's hand from the wound again. It was still bleeding, but the bandage would help it stop. He cleaned it once more, applied the ointment before it could start bleeding again, and then placed the bandage there, with a precise but smooth gesture.

"Your shirt's all dirty with blood," Molly pointed out. She felt drained now, and she could feel her heart ringing in her ears, but she could not define if this was due to the whole adrenaline of hurting herself, or the way Sherlock was standing, so close to her.

Sherlock shrugged, "It's okay; the hotel has dry cleaners included," he smiled at her again, the same soft expression as before.

Sherlock put the water on the sink to run and washed his bloodied hands. Then, he took the towel from Molly's hands, dipped a corner of it in water, wrung it, and washed Molly's face. Her left cheek, eyebrow and her nose were dirty with blood, so he cleaned them.

"There," he said when he finished. "How are you feeling?"

Molly shook her head, just to find out that it hurt when she did that. The muscles of her arms were weak, and she realised as she got up, that so were her legs. Sherlock helped steadying her.

"I'll be fine," she assured, "I have no idea how on earth I did this. What a moron."

Sherlock, surprisingly, laughed, "You just got injured; give yourself a break. You took care of all that wood in a single afternoon. I am sure you have just yielded to physical fatigue."

Molly knew he was right, but there was nothing she hated to admit more than the fact that she could have used some help, in the end. She washed her own hands, enjoying now the cold water and took a look at her face in the mirror. God, she looked ghastly. She was still red faced, and her hair a literal bloody mess. She tried to remove the traces of blood from it, and Sherlock tidied the first aid kit supplies, by her side.

"Leave it," she said, "I'll take care of that later."

"It's done," he affirmed. He put the kit back in the cabinet and then he left the bathroom, giving Molly some privacy.

When Molly returned to the living room the kettle was boiling in the kitchen and Sherlock was already stacking the smallest pieces of wood she had chopped in the living room, into a basket placed there for that same effect.

"Sit down," he encouraged, "I'm just going to put things outside back in place; tea should be ready in a minute."

"I'm fine," Molly assured. She was slowly getting back to herself, and her legs had stopped shaking, "I'll prepare the tea."

Sherlock got out through the porch's door and when he came back inside again Molly was placing two steamy mugs on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Sherlock sat across from her, on an old swing chair that Molly had purchased in a flea market a few days before, and accepted the mug that Molly passed him. In return, he gave Molly her cardigan. She had left it outside, hanging on the porch. It was still cold inside the house, so she dressed it up.

Sherlock took a sip of the tea, but it was too hot, so he blew it gently, warming his hands on the mug.

Molly put her legs underneath her, getting cosy. It was getting dark outside, and she could hear the wind rustling the trees.

"You never told me how you got such a good price for the wood," Molly remembered.

Sherlock seemed more at ease now, more relaxed. A boyish look crossed his eyes, almost wicked.

"I knew his secret," he revealed, mysteriously.

Molly frowned, "His secret?"

Sherlock assented, and he turned his head to the side, to look outside the big window, and to the forest beyond the porch, "Yes. He didn't get all of his wood legally." He took a long sip of his tea, and then he faced Molly. "I told you I've been wandering around the farm's area these last couple of days, looking for anything that may be of use for this case. Yesterday evening I ended up walking further than I wished and it got dark quite fast. As I was trying to figure out the best way to return to my hotel – it is about a mile and a half away from Mr. Abney's farm – I heard voices. Two men were debating something. I don't know this region, nor the people in it, so I stopped and waited. I wanted to avoid interrupting them, and if possible, crossing their path; one of the men sounded furious. I sat next to a tree and then I started to pick up some pieces of the conversation. When they left I had a pretty good idea about what they were doing, and why they were fighting."

He paused again, and Molly waited.

"When I heard the wood seller speaking today – Mr. Chapman, that's his name – I knew immediately that I had heard that voice before, and it wasn't hard to place it. He was one of the men talking in the middle of the forest on that evening. I had heard something else as I was waiting for the two men to leave, though. An animal of some sort, but I couldn't see what it was, or where it was coming from. I decided it was better to leave the place before I got attacked; there may be wild boars and foxes in the area, I imagine, and I didn't want to risk it. On my way across the forest I bumped into Mr. Chapman. He was in a hurry, and although he was surprised to see someone wandering in the woods that late, I am sure he didn't take a good look at me. It was too dark for that. I suppose he was clever enough, though, to understand my words today during the auction, when I bid £300, and when I told him that that was more than the wood was worth."

Molly still didn't understand, "I'm sorry, but I don't get it."

"He's a smuggler, Molly."

Molly raised her eyebrows, "A smuggler?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes. A wood smuggler. You can plant your trees and chop your own wood and sell it honestly, or you can illegally chop trees from places that are state property. If you do it as you should there's a small chance to be caught, and if you do it as you should, you'll have a big profit. I suppose he has a middle man, though, someone who does part of the dirty job for him, who was probably the other intervenient on that evening's debate."

Molly's mouth hung open now, "But," she started, "That means we bought smuggled wood."

Sherlock smiled, "Yes."

"But, that's wrong. We could be implicated if he ever gets caught."

Sherlock moved his head to the side, "Doubt it. He has no proof that we know."

"But that is wrong," Molly insisted, "Shouldn't we say something?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I'd rather none of us get involved. Going to the police will only bring us trouble. We won't be able to prove anything, either way. My word of what happened that night isn't enough to serve as evidence of what they're up to."

Molly seemed a bit distressed.

"Maybe I shouldn't have told you this," Sherlock considered, observing her. He finished his tea and placed the mug on the coffee table.

"No, it's alright. It's just weird, I think. I had never thought that there might be wood smugglers."

Sherlock got up, "Thank you for lunch, and for tea," he said. He grabbed his coat and put it on, and then he wrapped his scarf around his neck.

Molly got up too, "No, I'm the one who owes you now, with all the work, and trouble," she emphasised trouble, pointing at her bandaged forehead, "That I put you through."

Sherlock smiled, and shook his head, dismissing her words, but he did not say another thing. He opened the porch's door and walked over the threshold. The sun had set completely and the air was even colder. He buttoned his coat up and descended the three porch steps, "Are you sure you don't want to help me solve this case?" he tempted, once again.

Molly shook her head, "No," she assured, with determination.

Sherlock assumed a jokingly defeated expression, "I'll see you back in London, then."

And he turned his back, crossed the bridge and started walking alongside the stream.

Molly locked the door behind her, and crouched down beside it, admiring the work Sherlock had done with the cat flap. She didn't understand why he had to be so nice to her now. And then the truth hit her: she hadn't left London because of the times he had mistreated her, or dismissed her help when he no longer needed it; she had left London because of the times he was too nice to her, and she fell back to her own spiral of infatuation, to her own self-loathing because she had fallen in love with a man that had never promised her anything. Because, in the end, she was the only one responsible for her feelings, not Sherlock.

She took a shower, changed her bandage, and put the freshly chopped wood on the fireplace to burn. The softness in Sherlock's eyes when he was treating her kept crawling into her thoughts, the worry that accompanied it, his assured but gentle touch. She shook her head exasperated, and then decided that she needed something else to distract her, so she grabbed a notebook and she tried to doodle the cottage. The lines on the drawing were rough, harsh.

By the end of the evening, all she had filled the notebook with were faint lines that did little justice to her recollection of Sherlock's eyes, piercing right through her.


	15. The Night Shift

Chapter Fifteen

The Night Shift

* * *

><p>The whole cottage smelled of cookies. To be fair, she was happy about it, it wasn't the smell that bothered her, but the more than a hundred cookies that now lied pretty much everywhere. She had put them in dishes, covering the table, piled up. The recipe's book she had picked up at the local second-hand store that morning had had a good reason to be found there: a recipe that should have been for twenty four cookies suddenly had become enough to feed a small army of children, and she had used only half of the cookie dough. She hoped her oven could take all the extra work, and she put another batch in it. The rest of the dough she would freeze for another time.<p>

Despite the incorrect amount of dough estimated by the book writers, in one thing they had gotten it right: the cookies were delicious, soft without being mushy, and even better when dipped in tea. Molly was covered in flour, so she cut the remaining dough and kept it in a freezer bag, which she then put in the freezer. Then she washed her hands and put the cookies that had already cooled off in a plastic Tupperware.

Toby entered the kitchen, returned from his afternoon wanderings, and brushed against her legs. Molly smiled. She watered the recently planted vases and then left to her room.

With all the baking, the kitchen was far warmer than the rest of the house, so Molly put on her cardigan and then she sat on the bed. It had rained the whole afternoon, but the rain seemed to have subsided now. She hoped the next day was drier, as she intended to return the axe and chopping block as well as his gloves to Nicholas, and go to the flea market, to look for a bicycle. She wondered if it was really worth buying one; after all she would be back in London in about two weeks, and she had no idea when she would return, not to mention that the weather was becoming less and less appealing.

The timer on the kitchen went off and Molly got up. If the following day rose without rain, she would go to the market and give away some of her cookies, make someone's day a little sweeter.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had just received his clothes, dry cleaned, and he was trying to fold them correctly, to avoid creases. Since he had arrived he didn't even bother unpacking, but this case was taking longer than he had expected. There had to be something he was missing and he was hoping that this evening's endeavour would bring some light into the matter.<p>

According to Mr. Abney the sheep only disappeared during the night; he always counted them before releasing them in the morning, and before locking them inside their pen every evening. No sheep had disappeared for about two weeks but this was not a single occurrence; there didn't seem to be, as Sherlock had realised by Mr. Abney's notes, a certain pattern. Once two sheep disappeared in the same week, in different days. So Sherlock could only wait and hope.

Lestrade had called him a few days before, to hear about the previous case, still pending, but Sherlock had nothing new to tell him. He assured him he was still taking care of arranging the proof he needed for the jury, but that it may still take a few weeks. Sherlock turned off the phone before Lestrade could do any inquires about where he was, although he was sure John had probably told him. John didn't know he had come after Molly, though, so that was okay.

Not that he had come after Molly per se, Sherlock corrected himself mentally, he had come merely after the access she provided to the morgue, which would come in use now, to get Lestrade off his back.

He had spoken to John in the afternoon too, and John was busy as ever.

Sherlock fidgeted with his mobile, wondering if he should call Molly, ask her about the wound in her forehead, or if she needed help with anything, but decided not to. Her phone would probably still be turned off, anyway, so it wasn't even worth the try.

He put his phone in the pocket of his coat, and then picked up a lantern, and his gloves. He locked the door of his hotel room and left the place. His hotel was not far from Mr. Abney's farm, and he had a long night ahead.

* * *

><p>Molly finished packing the remaining of the cookies before going to bed. She brushed her hair out of her forehead, and her fingertips touched the bandage. When she had changed it in the afternoon the cut was clean, and Molly was sure it would heal fast enough, with a low chance of leaving a deep scar. Her mind floated back to Sherlock, to the events of the day before, and she sighed, looking at the cookies in her hand, remembering Sherlock's famished attack on her tagliatelle. She bit her lip. He was going to be out there all night, trying to figure out what had happened to Mr. Abney's sheep, hoping for a new clue.<p>

Molly looked up at the wall, checking the clock. It was close to midnight; Toby was in the living room, snuggled in a corner of the sofa, purring.

Even before taking a rational decision, Molly closed her eyes and shook her head, admonishing herself. She couldn't believe she was about to do this, but she undressed her pyjamas and then put on the cosiest clothes she had: a warm jumper, comfy trousers and thick socks, as well as a thin cardigan, and a warm coat. Then, she put the kettle to boil, made some tea and poured it into a big thermos, put that and the box of cookies in her bag alongside two mugs, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and put the fire on the fireplace off before leaving the house, locking the door behind her.

She turned on the lantern right after crossing the bridge, because there was no other streetlamp besides the one next to it, and she walked carefully, trying not to make much noise. Every step seemed to echo around her, and she moved the lantern from one side to the other. She was not easily scared, and she had seen no signs of other human beings around the cottage during those weeks besides Nicholas, but it was pitch dark, and she didn't want to be caught off guard if anyone got in her way, so she kept an even pace, and carried on. She only had to follow the stream to reach her destination, so there was no risk of getting lost.

When she reached Mr. Abney's property it was all pitch dark. She turned off the lantern and slowed down and then stopped for a second, looking around. There was not a streetlamp in sight, not a light on around the farm or fields, and if she remembered Sherlock's words correctly, he would be spending the evening next to the sheep, in their pen. Her eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, and she could see the pen now, illuminated by the weak light of the moon. She wondered if Rusty would attack in the presence of a stranger, but decided that Sherlock would not want Rusty to ruin his possibilities at finding a culprit, so most likely he had dispensed Rusty's company this night.

She opened the small gate and crossed the fence, trying to keep as quietly as possible, feeling the grass underneath her feet to avoid bumping into rocks or trip over strange elevations on the ground. The pen was at the far end of the field, and the sheep were all gathered together. It was hard to see beyond them and into the sheepcote.

She looked around before reaching for the lock that kept the sheep in the pen, and was about to call Sherlock's name when a strong pair of hands got hold of her from behind. She reacted instinctively and flung an arm free, hitting by accident the person straight in the face. Sherlock grunted, but did not let go, and they both fell to the ground.

"It's me, you idiot!" Molly's voice was not louder than an angry whisper.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked in the same way, but his tone was of surprise, "What are you doing here?"

"Are you pointing a gun at me?"

By then Sherlock was already on his knees, getting up. He extended a hand in her direction, and Molly grabbed it. He lifted her up with a swift movement, and looked around, whilst answering, "Yes. Sorry, didn't know it was you."

"You could have shot me by accident," she admonished.

But Sherlock pulled the trigger quickly, and a flame flared instead of a bullet, "It's fake. Having a gun pointed at you is always frightening, so I brought it for safe keeping," he explained, "Let's go into the sheepcote, we'll talk there," he advised, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her with him, making way between the sheep, locking the pen behind him.

If possible, it was even darker there than outside. Molly could distinguish a wooden box on the floor, and she felt, more than she saw, Sherlock fetching another one.

"Here," he said, "You can sit here."

Molly sat on the wooden box and Sherlock went out again, looked around, and came back inside.

"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked again in a whisper, but there was a hint of satisfaction to see her in his voice. Molly had hit his nose, but not right, so he felt like it was numb, more than anything.

"I came to make you company. That's what you asked me, wasn't it?" she said, in the same tone.

Sherlock sat next to her, leaving room enough to face her, although he couldn't really see much, "Yes, but you said you didn't want to keep me company," he remembered.

"Well, I changed my mind," Moly explained, "Plus, I baked too many cookies today and I thought I'd bring them to help you wail the hours away."

Sherlock smiled as he sensed Molly fetching a few things from her bag; she searched in the dark and then found his gloved hands, "I brought tea as well. This is your mug."

Sherlock was too dumbfounded to speak, so he took the mug Molly passed him and helped as she filled it with tea, the warmth of the mug passing through his gloves into his cold hands. Then, she retrieved a plastic box and opened it.

"You can have a cookie too," she said.

Sherlock took it. He wasn't famished, but he took a bite of one. It was delicious.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," she dismissed, and then changed the subject. Her heart was still racing. "Did I hurt you? I should have known it was you, but I reacted instinctively."

"It's fine," Sherlock assured, "I think we have both reacted a bit instinctively."

"Where did you get that gun?" she inquired.

Sherlock had finished eating the first cookie and he took a sip from the tea, and Molly helped herself to some as well.

"I took it from a murderer."

"Jim had one just like that," she confided.

Sherlock went silent, mulling this over in his head. He had taken this gun from the cabbie who had tried to convince him to take the pill, and he wondered if this was some kind of token for the Moriarty clan.

"What was he like?"

The question caught both off guard. Molly had never truly spoken about Jim with anyone after they had broken up, after he had made himself known as the king of crime, and she hardly thought about him afterwards.

Sherlock realised, as he waited for Molly to answer, that he had never thought about Moriarty's relationship with Molly, the sort of personification he had taken in order to fool her, in order to get Molly's trust. Moriarty had been the master of identities, and Sherlock wondered what had made Molly turn his attention to him in the first place. Sherlock had deduced him as gay, but that had been another role, another piece on Moriarty's game. He had never seen him through Molly's eyes. She had once claimed to have broken up with him, but Sherlock had never bothered to find out if that had been a cause of his revelation about Jim's sexual orientation and intentions by leaving his number for him, or if Molly had broken up with him for another set of reasons.

Molly was biting on a cookie, thinking about Sherlock's question for a moment and observing the sheep, that didn't seem to be paying them any attention. Knowing that Jim had been a con made it more difficult to describe him, because there was the Jim she thought she knew and the new Jim, viewed by her with added and truer information.

"He was sweet, I suppose," she finally said, "I met him at Bart's, as you know, and he was very kind. He had a nice conversation, he loved cats," she trailed off, "I'm speaking about the Jim I know, the Jim he was for me."

"I know," Sherlock said, "That's the one I was asking about."

Molly nodded and continued, "He had a sort of way with words. It was easy for me to get interested in him, because he spoke of many things that I liked, and he also asked about my work, and my hobbies, and he noticed things. When I had a new hairstyle, or when I put on a new lipstick. We only went out about three times, but in each he was always attentive, and nice not only to me, but everyone. He once helped a blind lady when we were heading back to my place, on our second date; she was carrying a bag of groceries and told him she was used to it, that she could manage, but he insisted to go out of our way and take her home."

"She died," Sherlock's affirmation had been more of a realisation than directed to Molly.

"What?"

"Nothing," he dismissed it, realising he had said it out loud.

"What do you mean, she died?" Molly demanded.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, "I can't be sure, of course. It's just a hint. But I have cause to believe that she was the same blind lady he killed when he was feeding me all those clues."

Molly tried to remember what Sherlock was referring to, "For that case with the trainers and the botox injection? The old lady that started to describe him?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes."

Molly thought about it for a second, realisation hitting her, "That's awful," she drained her mug, thinking about the probability of it all happening, and then she turned to Sherlock, "Do you want more tea?"

"Yes, please," he accepted, extending the mug in her direction.

She struggled with opening the thermos lid, "My hands are freezing," she admitted, "I forgot to bring my gloves."

"Here, take mine," Sherlock offered.

Molly refused, "No, it's fine."

"Stop being so stubborn when people are being nice to you. My hands are warm enough. Take this."

She hesitated for a second but then she accepted the gloves, in exchange for his mug full of tea, "Thank you."

Sherlock dismissed it with a gesture of his head, which Molly was unable to see, and served himself to a few more cookies. The tea Molly had made, prepared with sugar already, was just as he liked, "Why did you break up with him?"

Molly shrugged, "Well, first you had told me he was gay, and he did leave his phone under that dish. But-"

She couldn't tell him why. She couldn't tell him the real reason why she knew upfront that her relationship with Jim would not work out, even if he had turned out to be just the nice guy from IT in the end, why she had ruined every single chance at a relationship with everyone, every time. That would be admitting something Sherlock probably knew already, but that she would never be able to put it in words for him.

"I suppose I felt like something was amiss. Maybe it was instinctive; I felt something about him. There was not the right kind of chemistry. I guess that, in the end, he just didn't rock my boat."

"He didn't look like much fun; a bit bland," Sherlock offered, almost with disdain, "Not to mention he was a psychopath, which was bound to show eventually."

"Personally, I thought he was funny. He had a good sense of humour, and he laughed at my attempts at a joke," Molly paused, and it seemed to Sherlock that she was grinning now, "And he was surprisingly good at-"

The colour disappeared from Sherlock's face, and he choked on his tea, "Molly, I- I really don't want to know details about-"

"Knitting," Molly cut off, "He was surprisingly good at knitting. He knitted Toby a sweater."

She was now looking at Sherlock with an expression of mockery on her face and Sherlock blushed, thankful for the darkness that would conceal this.

"Oh. Sorry, I thought you were going to say that-" he started to explain.

"Well, to be fair, he _was_ also surprisingly good in bed."

This information was given deliberately and Molly thought that the look on Sherlock's face just about made her night. She could barely distinguished his features in the dark, but there wasn't much needed to realised he had never been so embarrassed.

"Yes, Molly, thank you," he sounded defeated, uncomfortable even, "I think that's enough information for now."

She laughed quietly, biting her lip and looking away from him. Sherlock shook his head, trying to conceal the admonishing smile lingering on his lips. They were silent for a minute as Sherlock finished his tea. Then, Molly stared at him, without a word.

"What?" Sherlock asked, trying to decipher Molly's intention.

Molly looked away again, "It's just… Have you ever been with someone?"

She knew very little about Sherlock's past, and if he had had any girlfriend or boyfriend, she was not aware of it. He mostly kept to himself and never seen to pay much attention to anyone. There had been that woman on the morgue, though. The one he had recognise from… not her face. That still intrigued Molly and she had never managed to know who she had been.

Sherlock gazed at Molly. He didn't like to talk about relationships. He thought they played no role in his life; what mattered was his job, and that people seemed so intrigued by his romantic life – or the lack of it – bothered him. Why did everyone have to give such importance to it? It wasn't really part of who he was. They knew him for his work, which was the only thing that mattered, and that should be more than enough.

Instead of answering, he inquired, "Why does it matter?"

Molly thought for a moment, and when she spoke, it was shyly, "It's that… I was in the pub with John and Lestrade once, and you had just been summoned to Buckingham Palace that day, and John was saying something to Lestrade, that Mycroft had said-"

As Molly tripped over her own words, Sherlock sighed, shaking his head, "Oh, I see," he finally understood, "Is that really relevant?"

Molly looked at him. He seemed annoyed now, "No," she lied, "Sorry I asked. It just got me thinking."

Sherlock shook his head again, "I'm not a virgin, if that's what everyone is wondering. There. Now you know it."

The revelation caught Molly by surprise; not because she thought he had to be a virgin simply due to Mycroft's remarks, passed on by John later on, but because she never thought he would actually go on to speak about it. Least to her.

"Oh, alright." she said simply. She still couldn't face him.

"_What?"_ Sherlock questioned now, slightly upset by all that her silence was asking.

"Nothing, it's nothing," Molly lied again.

"_Molly…_"

"I was just wondering who you had… Well, I never met anyone you've been in a relationship with, and you never seem to talk about it with anyone, either."

"By anyone you mean John and Lestrade. And You."

"Yes," she admitted, "You don't have any other friends, do you?" the words were uttered matter-of-factly, not as a way to hurt him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, realising she was right, "No. I don't," and knowing what she wanted to ask, he decided that since the conversation had gotten here, he might as well satiate her curiosity, and drop the subject, "She was not a girlfriend. It was an experiment."

"Who? The naked lady on the morgue?"

"Who?" Sherlock was more confused than ever.

"That lady, on Christmas. You recognised her… naked figure," she reminded him.

"Oh. Yes," he said, "I mean, no, she was not my…" he was trying to find the right word.

"Lover?" Molly suggested.

"Yes. That." He took a deep breath, "She was just a client."

"So, who was the… other one you were saying? The experiment?"

"A colleague from University," he continued, "I wanted to experiment, and she was willing."

"Older?"

"My age. Why do you assume she was older?"

"I don't know," Molly admitted.

"She was experienced, though, and able to remain unattached," Sherlock understood Molly's question before she did, "And I wanted to know what all the fuss was about, and in general, I suppose I didn't want to be left out from experimenting it. So I did. End of story."

Molly pursed her lips. She didn't have the heart to face him now, but another question was dancing in her mind, "Did you like it at all?"

Sherlock thought about it for a second, "It was enjoyable, I suppose. Not worth all the trouble that causes, though."

"Trouble?" Molly frowned.

"I require my brain to work, Molly. Sex is too much of a distraction. I rather put my energy to something more important."

Molly took all of this in, and she reflected on it for a moment, "You have never loved someone," she speculated, clenching her jaw.

"No," he acknowledged.

She straightened herself up, her hands now warm inside Sherlock humongous gloves, and she felt a shift in the air, like marking an end to that conversation.

"What is it like?"

The question was so quiet, lower than their previous whispers, and Molly had to make sure she had heard correctly.

"I don't know," she said, finally, becoming aware of it, "I've never loved anyone either," a look of defiance crossed her face and she stared Sherlock in the eye, "I've been in love, but that's a different thing," she explained.

"How come?" he asked, more out of politeness than actual curiosity.

"Well," she tried to put it into words the best she could, "Being in love is fancying someone. Even when you know very little about them. I think that in the beginning of a relationship, you are more in love with the idea of what a person is, than what she is in fact. Love takes time. It's cherishing the flaws as well as the good things, because all of it makes the person you love. I suppose that, in a way, it is knowing that even if they grow old you'll still want them by your side, because you're no longer in love with the way they look, but by the person they are, and the person they turn you into. Especially the person they turn you into," she was thoughtful now, "I've never been with anyone long enough to know what that is."

Sherlock pondered over it in silence, "I don't think I am missing much, then," he concluded.

Molly turned her attention back to him, "Why not?"

"I like who I am. I wouldn't want anyone to turn me into anything. So I suppose I would be too selfish to love, anyway."

Molly's eyes focused on his shadow, an almost undecipherable shape in the dark, and then rested on her gloved hands.

"Yes," Molly agreed, "I suppose you would."

And in that moment she was thankful that he could not see the look of disappointment, the loss of that final spark of hope, on her face.


	16. In The Wolf's Mouth

Chapter Sixteen

In The Wolf's Mouth

After that, the conversation turned into more trivial matters. Sherlock had no trouble with silence, and Molly was one of the best people to share a silence with; he knew that well, from the hours spent at the lab, but he still asked her about the cottage and how she had gotten it.

In the middle of their conversation a sheep tried to steal from Molly's hand a cookie she was eating, and Molly had no other choice but to let go of it. Even so, the sheep still waited for more of the same and Molly tried to shoo it away, with no results, whilst Sherlock laughed as quietly as possible, seeing Molly struggling to stop a sheep from chewing on her hands.

Around four in the morning, Molly fell into a light slumber. It was sudden and Sherlock only realised it when he turned to ask her another question and saw her leaning against the door frame, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. His gloves – far too big for her - were falling from her fingers, and Sherlock adjusted them. Then, he waited.

* * *

><p>"Molly, wake up!"<p>

His voice was still not more than a whisper, but Molly jumped in her seat, looking around.

"What? What happened?" the question was blurted out in pure panic and she blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the difference in the light. Now it was no longer pitch dark, but the shadows of the night were being quickly substituted by light oranges and bright yellows. When she looked at Sherlock, guilty to have fallen asleep when she was supposed to be keeping him company, she noticed he didn't have an admonishing expression in his face, he seemed instead almost mesmerised.

"The sun is rising. I thought you might like to see it," he said simply.

Molly followed his gaze into the mountains, the light sieving through the scarce clouds.

"It's beautiful," she said, and Sherlock's silence was a quiet agreement.

Molly fought the urge to stretch herself, but moved her head from side to side. She felt stiff from the position she had been holding against the door's frame, and she took a look at her clock.

"How long did I sleep?" she asked Sherlock, who finally turned his gaze to her.

"Less than two hours," he informed.

"I'm sorry," she apologised. Sherlock's gloves had fallen to the ground and she picked them up, returning them to their owner, "Thank you."

"It's alright," he took the gloves and kept them in his pocket.

Molly got up, looking around, and Sherlock mimicked her movements.

"Have you seen anything peculiar?" she inquired.

Sherlock shook his head, "No. It would have been quite a strike of luck, something happening exactly when I decide to spend the night here," he recognised.

Molly chuckled, "Yes. That would have been. What if you don't find anything?"

Sherlock considered it for a minute, "I suppose I'll have to return to London empty handed. It wouldn't be the first time, but it's still frustrating."

"Well, the sheep can't just evaporate, can they?" she joked. She still felt her eyelids heavy.

"Unless someone found a way to manipulate their matter and teleport them elsewhere, I suppose not."

"Maybe they are falling into holes on the ground and no one has noticed yet," she proposed, mockingly.

Sherlock grew quiet, Molly's words echoing in his mind. The sheep were kept in the pen all night, and they never left. Yet, sometimes, one of them disappeared. He had searched the field where they grazed, the pen and the sheepcote himself, to make sure there were no openings that could allow the sheep to escape, but just like Mr. Abney and the police before him, he had found no defect, no way out of it. It was a sealed unit. Or was it?

Something. There was something lurking in his brain, something he had overlooked and was now taking a relevant place in his mind, bringing him a possible solution.

"There's a trapdoor," Sherlock uttered.

"What?"

Molly had noticed the change in Sherlock's posture, all attentive now, like a cat in position to attack a prey.

He didn't answer. He turned around and walked towards the back of the sheepcote. Molly followed, unsure, and saw him walking from one side to the other, two times kneeling down to inspect the floor. The second time seemed to present something interesting, and Molly observed as he ran his hands over what seemed to her just straw on the ground, the same type of straw that was covering the whole pen, placed on top of the dark soil.

But it was more than that. With triumph, Sherlock turned his hand and managed to insert the tip of his fingers under a detachable object on the ground, and he pulled it upwards.

Molly looked with astonishment as some sort of wooden door was lifted and, underneath it, a hole was made into the ground.

"Oh my god."

The words came from Molly, and Sherlock looked up at her, "Thank you," he said, "You might be as useful as a conductor of light as John. I have no idea how I overlooked this."

"But, it was camouflaged," Molly pointed out, "The wooden piece is exactly like the ground, and there's straw attached to it so you can hardly see a difference between that and the rest around it. It's even encased into the ground, so that it doesn't stand higher than the rest."

Sherlock's attention had shifted back into the hole on the ground, and he ran his hands around the entrance, examining the soil, and its width.

"See if you can find me a rope, please," he asked, while examining now the trapdoor as well.

Molly looked around, and found what he had asked for quickly. Sherlock took the rope in his hands, looked for a heavy object, and tied up a shovel to the rope. Then he proceeded to unfurl it and throw it into the hole. It hit ground straight away, and Sherlock pulled the rope back up.

"It's about seven feet high," he said, measuring the extent of rope that had fit into the hole, and again he seemed to be talking more to himself than to Molly.

He put the rope down and then removed his jacket.

"You're not going in?" Molly inquired, in disbelief.

"Yes I am," he answered, "The hole is wide enough, and it's not too tall. I need to see if it leads somewhere."

"But it may be dangerous!" Molly admonished. There was a determination in Sherlock's face as he faced her, raising his eyebrows, silently wondering why Molly thought that that would stop him, so she made a quick decision, "If you're going, I am going too."

Sherlock had his legs on the hole already, sitting on the brim of it and he looked up, "Not a chance."

"Try and stop me, then," she said, defiantly.

"Molly, I need you to stay here," Sherlock explained, "If something happens to me, I need someone to back me up."

Molly grabbed the rope Sherlock had used to gauge the profundity of the hole and she removed the shovel from it. Then, she looked around and found something to tie it to. She pulled, making sure it was tightly secure, and then sent the tip of the rope down the hole again.

"There," she said, "If we need to come back up, we can. I am not letting you go down the rabbit hole all by yourself."

"Fine, Alice," Sherlock agreed, not because he wanted to, but because he had no intention of wasting more time arguing. Then, he slung himself down the hole.

Molly heard him land with a heavy thud and a groan but it was too dark and she was unable to see where the hole ended. She then did the same Sherlock had done before her; she sat on the brim and then called Sherlock's name, "Can I go down?"

"No!" Sherlock's voice came from down there.

"I'm going down!" she warned him.

"Molly, stay there!"

The demand had been in vain; next thing he knew Molly had thrown herself down the hole as well and was landing almost on top of him. He had only time to take a short step back and make sure he was able to support her fall.

"Are you alright?" he asked, as Molly steadied herself in his arms.

Molly nodded.

"Molly, if you want to do this with me, you'll have to speak out loud. It's dark, I can sense some of your movements, but I can't see everything."

"I'm fine," she assured, "Did I hurt you?"

"No, you didn't."

Sherlock looked at his feet, "Don't move now," he asked.

Molly tried to give Sherlock as much room as it was possible in that confined space, and Sherlock crouched down at her feet.

"There's another tunnel here, wider," he informed, inspecting the hole, "I think we can go through here, if we go one after the other. It's still a short space; we'll have to crawl bu-"

"Sherlock, do you really think it's wise to get ourselves into a tunnel like this? We don't know what is at the other end."

"That's why I told you to stay up there," he raised himself again, looking at her in the dark, "But obviously you never listen to me."

"That's not true," she demanded, "I listen to you more often than you listen to me."

"Molly, that's quite irrelevant at the moment. Let's focus on this, shall we?"

Molly was listening, arms crossed in front of her chest.

"I need to find out where the hole leads to. I suspect that this will take us out of Mr. Abney's property, into the surrounding fields, maybe even into the woods. You can come with me, or you can go back up again. It's your choice. Either way," he added, "I'm going."

Molly found herself stretching her hand towards him, but she retrieved it back to her side, "What if something happens down there? What if you get hurt?"

Sherlock stepped forward shortening the small distance available between Molly and himself and he felt the walls of the hole above her head with his hand. He couldn't find the rope.

"The rope is too small," he realised, in a whisper.

"What?"

"You removed the shovel and tied the rope to the metal hook on the wall, but you used too much of the rope to tie the knot."

Molly assimilated his words, "We're trapped," she realised.

"We're trapped," Sherlock confirmed, with a sigh, "Well, the only way now is sideways. Do you want to come along or do you prefer to wait here until Mr. Abney shows up? He shouldn't take long, anyway."

"I'm going with you," she decided.

She could see Sherlock facing her in the dark.

"The sheep had no other way to disappear than through here, so this has to have a way out," he rationalised, and Molly understood that he was trying to console and reassure her.

"The sheep never reappeared," Molly refuted, matter-of-factly.

"I'll get us out of here," he promised, "If we don't find anything there, we can come back here and Mr. Abney will pull us out."

Molly knew he was right. They were not exactly trapped. Not yet, anyway.

Sherlock, in a very uncharacteristic gesture extended a hand, and for a brief moment, so brief Molly was unsure it had really happened, he squeezed hers, "Let's go, then," he crouched down again, getting on his hands and knees, and went through the other hole. It didn't stand much taller than Molly's thighs, and she hoped they didn't have to crawl for long.

Molly crawled as close as possible to Sherlock, making sure her hands didn't step on his shoes. It was dark, but dry. There was enough room above her head but that didn't make that expedition less uncomfortable. She bumped into Sherlock a few times, every time he stopped to examine something on the ground or walls, but he never complained, too focused on what he was doing.

They crawled for a while, until Molly's hand and knees were aching.

"There's a bit more light ahead," she heard Sherlock saying, speaking for the first time since they had begun their journey underground.

They had finally reached the exit of the second tunnel, and Sherlock finally stopped.

"Oh, it smells ghastly," Molly noted.

Sherlock was now trying to turn in his place, not to face Molly, but in order to sit on the ground. He didn't respond to Molly's remark. He sat at the entrance of the tunnel and retrieved a flashlight from his pocket.

"Do you have a flashlight?" he asked Molly.

"I do, but I left it up there, in my bag," she said.

"Then stay close to me. The tunnel got wider here, there's light coming from a small entrance on the right, but I still can't see very clearly."

He turned the flashlight on and then pointed downwards.

"It's not high," he said, "I'm going to jump," and he went down.

Molly heard him landing, his shoes hitting the ground, and she followed suit. The height was a lot shorter than when she had thrown herself into the hole on the ground of the pen.

"It's like a cave," Sherlock noted when she stood right next to him.

She had to cover her nose, "The smell is horrible," she noted again.

Sherlock looked at her. She could see his features better now, with the help of the light coming from the entrance on the wall. They were still underground, but it was a wide space, a few inches tall above her head. Sherlock had to bow down his head a bit to fit there, and there was enough room for them to pace comfortably.

"It's dead sheep," Sherlock answered to her remark.

Molly looked at him, and then saw him pointing with the flashlight at something on the ground. There was sheep's fur there, as well as some bones, but not many, and traces of something dark that looked to Molly terribly like blood. Molly's mouth fell agape, at the obvious traces of what had happened there.

Sherlock walked around the room, kneeling here and there, stopping to see better the things that caught his attention.

"I think we'd better leave. I saw what I had to see here."

It was the grave tone on his voice that shook Molly out of her shock. She nodded, and Sherlock pointed in the direction of the entrance of the cave. It was just a hole, smaller than the other two but still wide enough to allow them passage if they crawled again. The light that came from it was the daylight, and it managed to barely illuminate the cave, but that was their way out. If Sherlock was not mistaken, according to the direction they had followed, and the distance they had covered, they should be near the river. He could hear a faint sound of water that made his assumptions even more plausible.

He turned off the flashlight and then he kneeled down, "Come right after me," he asked Molly.

Molly acquiesced and saw him disappearing beyond the hole, and then she passed through it as well.

The difference in light made her flinch. They had crawled for so long in the dark that even the pale light of the morning felt blinding.

Sherlock helped get on her feet, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she assured, "Where are we?"

"West from the farm. I've been here before, when I encountered the wood seller than night. Remember that I told you?"

Molly nodded and then, realising Sherlock wasn't looking at her, she voiced her answer.

Sherlock turned around and inspected the entrance of the cave now, and the ground.

"It's no surprise no one ever saw this here before," he considered, "It's a small entrance, it's camouflaged with grass. Why would anyone notice it?"

"Sherlock," Molly spoke, "The sheep. They have been killed, haven't they? And eaten."

Sherlock got up again, turning around; the river was running smoothly a few yards in front of them, and a bit further away there was a wooden bridge that seemed to be decaying, "Yes. Yes, they have; now all we need to know is by whom, or what, and I have a fairly good hint about it, with the footprints I saw-"

He was interrupted by Molly's hand locking around his wrist, and he saw what she was seeing right then. He froze, and spoke quietly, "Molly, if it turns around, don't make eye contact, and don't try to run away. They're too fast for us."

His words were not more than a whisper. He managed to remove his wrist from Molly's grasp, and then he enclosed her hand in his. Her palms were sweaty and there were still traces of earth on them, but she was not shaking. She was calm.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

Sherlock looked around, "Go to your right; see if you can find somewhere we can climb up hill."

"What if it turns around?"

"We'll figure it out."

He felt Molly pulling him to her right, walking slowly but steady, and he knew she was counting on him to be vigilant whilst she looked for a lower place on the hill, a pathway that would lead them out of there fast.

"Here. It's lower, there's some improvised path," she said.

"Go first, I'll follow you," Sherlock encouraged.

He let go of Molly's hand reluctantly and saw her disappearing up hill. She had laid down on the ground, and a few seconds later Sherlock was by her side, doing the same.

"Lean down as you walk," Sherlock advised, "I don't want it to see us. There's a bridge and he can cross it. Follow me."

"You know the way back to the farm from here?"

"Yes. Let's go."

Sherlock was slightly crouched now, and Molly followed him like that for a few yards. Then he got up, he held on to her hand again, and they both paced fast out of there.

Sherlock would look behind once in a while, to make sure they were safe, and they kept quiet until they reached the farm. By the time they got there Mr. Abney, Nicholas and a young man none of them knew were already standing there. The sheep had been taken from the pen already and were scattered around the field, Rusty guarding them faithfully.

Mr. Abney walked in their direction as they approached the fence that encircled the sheep's field, separating it from the rest of the land, and Sherlock skipped it with agility.

"Where have you gone to?" Mr. Abney asked, worry all over his face.

Sherlock didn't answer the question, "You need to call the police and wildlife rescue," he demanded. He was checking something on his phone already.

"What are you talking about?" Mr. Abney requested, "We saw that the hole on the ground was uncovered, but we called for you and there was no answer!"

Sherlock seemed to have found what he was looking for, and he walked in the direction of the pen again, followed by Mr. Abney and Molly. When he got there he inspected the wood casing that was hiding the hole on the ground better.

"Why haven't you told me that the pen had a hole on the ground?" he asked Mr. Abney.

"Well, it was covered, wasn't it?" he asked, reluctant, "Why? Does it have anything to do with the disappearance of the sheep?"

Sherlock stared at him, "Yes. It has everything to do with the disappearance of the sheep, obviously. You have a hole on the ground, sheep are disappearing and you can't see how. Didn't it occur to you that it may have something to do with it?"

He seemed annoyed, on the verge of being angry.

"Sherlock," Molly called him out on it, but she was interrupted by Mr. Abney, who did not seem bothered by Sherlock's manners.

"No," he answered, "Do you mean that the whole has a… way out?"

"You didn't even know?" Sherlock was astonished.

"No," Mr. Abney seemed to be making the connection now of how his sheep had been disappearing over those two months, "So you mean to tell me that the sheep have been going down the hole? That's how they get out?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

"Where are they, then?"

Sherlock gazed at him for a moment, "They're dead," he delivered bluntly, "We found where this hole leads to. It's a set of tunnels, and they end in a cave by the river. We found traces of blood, and bones, and fur."

Mr. Abney removed his flat cap, and held it against his chest, a saddened expression to his face, "There was not much hope after all this time, I suppose," he admitted, "But one of them disappeared about two weeks ago, I thought there may be a chance we might find it alive and-"

"They didn't just disappear down the hole, Mr. Abney," Sherlock explained, and Molly could see a trace of empathy as he measured his words now, "They are killed and eaten."

"Eaten? Alive?"

"Yes."

"By what?"

"A wolf."

Mr. Abney took in the words, "But that's impossible. There are no wolves in the woods, and either way, this hole is never open. For them to fall into it someone had to have opened the wooden cover several times, and I have never opened it myself. I have never seen the wooden cover out of place since I put it there," he promised, looking at Sherlock, "So who is making it possible for them to fall down the hole?"

Sherlock looked at Molly, and then he stared straight up at Nicholas for a moment. Then his eyes shifted again and set beyond all of them.

"Rusty."


	17. The Mystery Unfurls

Chapter Seventeen

The Mystery Unfurls

"What?" the question was echoed by three different voices: Mr. Abney, Molly and Nicholas.

"That doesn't make sense at all," Mr. Abney said, and Sherlock fixed his gaze on him.

"There are clear traces of several bites on the trapdoor that leads to the tunnels, which could only have been made by Rusty," he paused and decided to tackle the subject differently, before Mr. Abney began making questions, "How did that hole came to be? Did you dig it? Was it already there when you had the sheepcote built?"

"No," this time it was Nicholas who stepped forward and answered, "It was Rusty who made it."

"There was no trapdoor then, before he made the hole, I imagine?" Sherlock inquired.

Nicholas shook his head, "No, there wasn't. I put the trapdoor there because Rusty decided that it was a good idea to start digging there. I mean, he pretty much likes to dig anywhere, but he usually covers up the hole right after."

"What happened to Rusty when he dug that whole?"

"What do you mean?" Nicholas frowned, unable to understand what Sherlock was asking.

"Rusty dug a hole in the ground, and then what? Where did he show up?"

"Nowhere," Mr. Abney interceded, "He was right there, sitting next to it in the morning."

Sherlock chuckled, and shook his head in astonishment, "Your dog digs a massive hole in the ground and you don't even wonder how he did that? The whole is almost seven feet high. If he did that all by himself, how did he get back up again? He wouldn't be able to climb back up, he's a heavy dog."

Mr. Abney was taking in Sherlock's words, but it was Nicholas who spoke next, "No, Rusty didn't dig it all up. There wasn't anything as enough earth removed from the hole to cover seven feet. We imagine he must have dug up a bit and found another bigger hole underneath."

"And yet, even after that, you never wondered how on earth had he been able to climb that height back up?"

"No," Mr. Abney admitted, "He was right there, we didn't think about it anymore. We covered the hole with that piece of wood, made sure it looked just like the rest of the sheepcote's ground just to make it neater, and that was it. No sheep disappeared that day," he explained.

"No, of course not," Sherlock said, "The sheep started to disappear after that."

Everyone was now looking at him, waiting for the full explanation of the facts. He sighed, "Rusty found a tunnel by accident; he was digging, and you already said it was usual for him to do, and the earth underneath him collapsed. He found himself on a set of tunnels, with only one way to go, and he followed it. When he reached the bottom, the other side of the tunnel, he had company," Sherlock removed his phone from his pocket and showed an online headline of a newspaper, "A bit over two months ago a young wolf ran away from a wild reserve, about a hundred miles away from here. They were never able to recapture it, despite the searches. They even have a picture of the missing wolf on the article and everything," he showed.

Molly looked at it, "That's the wolf we saw, just smaller," she noted.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, "It's bigger now, of course. But when Rusty found it, by accident, the wolf was nothing more than a small puppy in his eyes. It was hungry, probably hurt. I can only suppose that Rusty embraced the role of Alfa dog: he decided that it was his job to cater to the wolf's needs. I bet the wolf found shelter on that cave, and I bet too that it had hunted something before: a fox, or a wild boar, is my close guess. There was no way for Rusty to know that it ate sheep, so my bet is that one night Rusty went back to the cave and a sheep must have fallen down the hole after him. The wolf ate the sheep, and from that day on Rusty knew what he had to do to keep the wolf fed."

"But why wasn't the wooden door misplaced then?"

"I can only guess Rusty knew he was supposed to protect the sheep, but he took the wolf like his own. So he would open the trap door, guide a sheep to the hole, and then close the hole when it was done. The sheep had only one way to follow, and they would find the wolf at the other end," he paused, "Rusty didn't just end up there in the morning he dug up that hole. Rusty ended up by the river, and then he returned home."

"That's insane," Nicholas said.

"Maybe. But when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," Sherlock faced Mr Abney, "The only footprints I find outside the cave by the river are of the wolf, and there are clear marks of Rusty's bites, as I said before, on the trapdoor. There really is no other explanation."

Mr. Abney turned around, looking at Rusty, that wandered around the field, guiding the sheep so that they wouldn't scatter much.

"What do we do now, then?" he asked. There was a sort of desperation that covered his anger.

"There's a wolf in the loose. We call wildlife rescue to pick him up. It's astonishing it hasn't yet attacked anyone, but I am guessing Rusty's ways must have caught on to it. Then, once the wolf is gone, we send Rusty to the cave again. I can only guess that as soon as he realises there is nothing else to cater to, his loyalty will be with the sheep again. He didn't just guide them there in mass; he sent the indispensable for the wolf's survival."

"A dog with a conscience," Nicholas joked.

"Well, we'll never know exactly. After all, Rusty will never get to tell his side of the tale. We can only speculate."

"What if we can't trust him?" the question came from the young man that was accompanying Mr. Abney.

Sherlock deduced him quickly: early twenties, a student. Mr. Abney's son. He looked at him sternly, "You're not going to put Rusty down. Send him to training again if needed, but he is a valuable dog, not a disposable object."

The young man swallowed, threatened by Sherlock's words, and lowered his head, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"Here's the wildlife rescue number. The wolf is in the woods, west of here. There's an old bridge; that's where we saw it."

Nicholas nodded in agreement, took the paper with the number Sherlock had scribbled, and then ran into the house, in order to make the call.

"Should we call the police as well?" Mr. Abney asked. He seemed distressed.

"I don't see any reason to do that. It will only complicate things for Rusty. Your problem with the missing sheep is solved; everything will get back to normal soon."

Mr. Abney sighed deeply, "Well, thank you. I must admit it was not a hypothesis that I had put, and certainly the last thing I would have expected, but you have proven your value over the last weeks, and I trust you."

"Good," Sherlock affirmed. Then, he turned around, "Rusty!"

The dog, who had sat under the protection of a tree, stood on his paws and started running furiously in their direction. Sherlock kneeled down as he approached and then started to pet him effusively, "I'm sorry, big boy."

"Why are you apologising to him?" Molly's voice wasn't stern, just genuinely curious.

"He's going to lose a family member today. That ought to make a dent."

Molly watched as Sherlock played with the dog now, and as his words settled in her mind, she realised that the Sherlock she knew was a massive lie. All the emotionless talk and heartless banter were a pretence, a shell that he wore to avoid heartbreak, manipulation. To avoid showing his most human side. Sherlock Holmes was ashamed of loving, for he believed it to be a weakness, not because he was unable to. It must be a tiresome act and she had never felt so sorry for him.

Nicholas came running from the house, and Sherlock got up. He caught hold of Molly's expression and frowned, but Nicholas had reached them by then.

"They're coming," he informed, "I told them about the wolf, and about the missing one that is apparently the same. I also gave them our address and phone number so they'll report to us as soon as they have it taken care of."

"They're going to take it back to the reservation, I assume?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," Nicholas confirmed, "They said the guys from the reservation had looked for it for weeks, and were worried it might have attacked someone and that they might have to pay a fine. I thought it was best to keep the dead sheep to ourselves," he looked at Mr. Abney, "Sorry, uncle, but Rusty's the real culprit here, and I don't want to get him in trouble."

Mr. Abney nodded, "No, you did the right thing. What's past is past. We're lucky the case was solved by Mr. Sherlock Holmes here and no other sheep will disappear."

He smiled in Sherlock's direction and Sherlock smiled back, not as openly.

"Glad I was able to help," he said.

He finally let go of Rusty with a final pat, and the dog darted towards the sheep again, to lie down under the usual tree.

"Well, I guess my job here is done," Sherlock begun. Then he stared at Molly, "I'm going back to London, unless you need anything from-"

"Oh, no!" Nicholas interrupted, "You can't go today. We're having a Halloween party on Tuesday, you can't miss that!"

Sherlock shook his head, politely, "I'm afraid I don't do Hallowee-"

"There's ghost stories, and sweets, drinks, and music. Mike here," he pointed at Mr. Abney's son, "Is going to play with his band, and there's a pumpkin carving contest with prize and all. It's in two days' time; certainly you can stay a while longer."

Nicholas was now looking at Molly, and she realised he had assumed that she was returning to London with Sherlock.

"I'm not going anywhere yet," she assured him, "I'd be delighted to attend the party."

Nicholas smiled, "Great! The kids are going trick and treat and at midnight we start it all. It's here on the farm grounds, and it's always fun. Quite a few people show up every year."

Molly looked at Sherlock, "Are you sure you can't stay for two more days?"

Her big eyes were looking at him and Sherlock felt a thump in his chest that pleaded him not to disappoint her again. She had helped him, after all.

"Alright," he acquiesced.

Molly's smile widened and Nicholas laughed, patting Sherlock on the back, "Now we're talking! I'm just going to get you something while you sort the rest out."

He grabbed Mr. Abney's son by an arm and they both walked in the direction of the farm. Mr. Abney put on his cap again.

"Well, let's go and put things back in place here," then he addressed Sherlock, "We'll have to settle your bill, too."

Sherlock nodded and then he and Molly followed the older man into the sheepcote, to retrieve their things. Molly watched as Sherlock pointed out how he had come to the conclusion that Rusty was behind all that, and as they were walking back to the gate Nicholas came with two bags.

"Here," he said, passing one to Molly and one to Sherlock, "One pumpkin for each of you. First prize is usually worth it."

Sherlock shook his head, "I'm afraid I can't carve pumpkins."

"Oh, come on," Nicholas admonished, "I'm sure you carved them as a child, give it a try. It's not about winning, it's about participating."

"Well, I'll give it a try. Gladly," Molly affirmed, and Nicholas smiled with satisfaction.

"You can carve pumpkins?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I can carve pumpkins," she seemed almost offended, "I'll tell you what," she challenged, "If I win first prize you have to tell the audience on Tuesday a scary story."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Sherlock asked.

"Quite sure."

"It's settled, then," Nicholas interceded. Then, he pointed in Mr. Abney's direction, "I better go and help him. I'll see you Tuesday!"

Sherlock and Molly watched him catching up with Mr. Abney and then Sherlock put on his coat and scarf, "Do you need me to walk you home?"

Molly shook her head, "No, it's fine. I'm tired," she admitted.

Sherlock nodded, "I'll pick you up on Tuesday evening, then."

Molly looked at him for a second, "Why don't you show up in the late afternoon? I'll make us some dinner, and maybe I can even give you some tips on how to improve your mediocre carving skills."

Sherlock opened his mouth in faked astonishment.

"Alright," he said, "But I'll cook dinner, then. Something a bit more sophisticated than pasta, perhaps."

Molly didn't respond to the insult. She smiled and turned around, "See you Tuesday then, Mr. I'm-too-sophisticated-for-pasta," she muttered, without looking back.

Sherlock answered to the farewell, and then he watched her go, whilst he waited for Mr. Abney, in order to settle everything up.

When he finally left the farm – the wildlife rescue had come to retrieve the wolf – Sherlock's mind wandered back to Molly. He realised that he liked her company. Not only the quiet company who asked him silly questions in the lab, and passed by his flat with bags filled with thumbs and eyes and a quick conversation. He enjoyed her newly-found defiance, her stubbornness, her easy-going posture that was so opposed from his. Sherlock felt at ease whilst doing his job, but otherwise he was always a fish out of water. Molly, on the other hand, always seemed to fit even when she did so awkwardly. No one held a grudge against her, not even when she spilled her mind without thinking, because everyone loved Molly, her kindness, her big heart. Molly was unapologetic in her feelings, in her vulnerability, and Sherlock envied that. He had always thought that he was the strong one, but he soon realised that the deception of keeping it together requires less courage than the honesty of breaking down.


End file.
